On Angel's Wings 4
by Mummyluvr
Summary: Before Sam got his wings, something evil tried to kill him. Turns out, he's not the only victim... Probably the final story in the Angel's Wings series.
1. Chapter 1

Wow, it's been a busy couple of months for me (which explains why I've only had time for a few drabbles and one-shots). This story's been sitting on my desktop for a while, almost done, but not quite there. Well, I think I've made you good people wait long enough. So, without further ado, OAW4 (oh, and don't forget to check out the first three Angel's Wings stories if you haven't yet. They're awesome!).

**Title:** On Angel's Wings 4

**Summary:** Before Sam got his wings, something evil tried to kill him. Turns out, he's not the only victim...

**Warnings:** Language and violence and gore. Really, it's along the same lines as the first three in the series. Not bad, but not soemthing I would let my grandma read...

**Disclaimer:** sigh Fine, they're not mine. But oh, how I wish they were. :)

* * *

On Angel's Wings 4

"Hello, ma'am," the adorable nine-year-old announced as Rosie Wilkinson opened the door, "I'm selling cookies for my school's fundraiser. Would you like to buy some?"

Rosie's brow creased in confusion as she reached back into the house for her purse. The 55 year old had never met anyone like this girl before. Usually, she could read anyone, find out their innermost secrets and desires, but all she got from the elementary schooler was a hiss of static. It was unnerving.

The aging psychic turned back to the girl with the money only to find the child gone. Rosie looked around, searching the streets, but there was no sign of her. Shrugging, the old woman went back into her house for an early lunch.

She had just settled down at the table with a cold sandwich when the static again filled her head, drowning out all other thoughts. Rosie turned to find the little girl standing behind her with a very sharp knife clutched in one tiny hand.

"What are you doing?" the old woman asked as the girl drew closer.

"Daddy will be so proud of me," the little girl cooed as her eyes turned black and she attacked.

o0o0o0o0o

Sam Winchester jumped into the air, flaring his wings as a sharp burst of pain ripped through his forehead before quickly subsiding. From the bed beside him he heard a muffled sneeze that ruffled his feathers.

"Dude," Dean muttered, flipping on the bedside lamp and pushing Sam's right wing out of his face, "next time we're getting separate rooms."

Sammy grinned sheepishly, folding his wings back and sitting up at the foot of his bed. "Sorry, still getting used to it."

Dean nodded, yawning loudly and stretching his own flawlessly white wings. "Whatever man. Any particular reason you're beating me with your little grey feather duster at four in the morning?"

"I think I had another vision," the younger man admitted, running a shaking hand through his dark hair, "some old lady, no older than sixty, got attacked by a little kid. She was possessed."

"The old lady, or the kid?"

"The kid."

"Well, you got a name, Psychic Wonder?"

Sam nodded. "I caught a glimpse of her id when she got out the money to pay the girl for cookies. It's Rosie Wilkinson."

"Wilkinson?" Dean asked, finally starting to wake up, "isn't that the little baby from Salvation?"

"The one and only. Her mom seemed to think she could read minds. And get this, in my vision, the little girl that attacked her said 'daddy will be so proud of me.' What do you think that means?"

Dean just shrugged. "Beats me. Then again, I'm not exactly at my intellectual best until after noon."

Sammy snorted. "You have an intellectual best? Hard to believe."

"Excuse me," the other retorted, "but I seem to remember someone having an awful hard time remembering to zip his fly a few years back."

"I had Alzheimer's," Sam defended, "what was your excuse?"

"I had a date."

The younger man just rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Dean. I think we're dealing with the same demon that got inside of Angie back in Michigan."

"The one that tried to kill you?"

"Exactly. It's working for something, something bigger."

Dean nodded. "Ok, well, we go out to Salvation in the morning, check on our favorite telepath, and keep an eye out for any demonic forces." He rolled back onto his stomach and closed his eyes.

"We have to leave tonight." Sam said, "it would probably be best if we get there _before_ she's killed."

The older man opened an eye. "You know I hate night flying. Can't it wait?"

"Evil waits for no one."

Dean chucked a pillow at him. "The old broad had better appreciate this!"

* * *

As always, I'll keep on updating even if no one replies, but feedback is always greatly appreciated :) 


	2. Chapter 2

Another short chapter, mostly because I'm still not done with the whole story and have no idea how long that could take, and partly becuase I can't stay on long tonight. Enjoy!

* * *

Rosie Wilkinson didn't know exactly what to think when she opened her door at six in the morning to find two handsome young men shivering in the cool morning air. "What do you want?" she barked, rubbing at her eyes and trying to separate their jumbled thoughts from her own.

"You probably don't remember us," the shorter man said, offering her a stunning smile, "but we've saved your life once before, and we're here to do it again."

The taller man glared at him as Rosie slammed the door. She turned to walk away as the strangers started arguing with each other.

"Why would you tell her that?" one demanded.

"I thought you said she could read minds," the other replied, "I thought she might be able to figure it out!"

"Well you thought wrong."

"Yeah? Well at least I didn't spend an hour searching Salvation for a psychic when Google could have told us she'd moved to Wisconsin fifteen years ago!"

"Excuse me for not catching a street name as I watched the old lady get stabbed to death!"

Rolling her eyes, Rosie pulled the door open. "Would you two shut your cakeholes?" she demanded, "honestly, I'll go deaf if I have to listen to another minute of your bickering."

"We wouldn't be bickering if someone wasn't such an ass," the taller muttered as his counterpart glared at him.

The old psychic sighed. "I'm not going to get anymore sleep tonight whether I let you boys in or not, am I?"

"Nope," the shorter of the two grinned.

"Guess I have no choice, then," Rosie muttered, stepping slowly aside to let the two men enter.

"Nice place you've got here. Loads better than the last one," the shorter man said, taking a seat on her couch and looking around interestedly, "I'm Dean, by the way. This is my brother Sam."

"That much, I got," Rosie replied, tapping her head and taking a seat across from him in her favorite chair, "your names, and that you know what I can do."

"Yet you still let us in."

"Trust me, I'd know if someone was going to try and hurt me."

"Sure about that?" Dean muttered, glancing quickly at his brother, who had joined him on the couch. Sam elbowed him roughly. "What? I'm just saying…"

"You think something's going to attack me," Rosie said, "but the only thing I can't figure out is why you think that, how you got my name, and why you would have gone to Salvation looking for me."

"I told you before," Dean explained, "we already saved you once. You were only six months old, and your house was burning down-"

"The demon," she nodded, "yeah. I know. I don't remember, but my mom told me. I wasn't even a year old when some of its goonies went after my folks and tried to kidnap me. They got my dad. Mom fought back until they all fell down, grabbing at their stomachs or something. They were bleeding."

The brothers looked at each other. "Must have been right as we were taking it down," Sam said. He turned back to Rosie. "My brother and I were the ones who saved you and your folks from the fire in Salvation."

The old woman nodded thoughtfully. "Explains how you know me and why you went to Iowa, but not why you're here now."

"I'm like you," the shaggy young man said slowly, "just different. I see things sometimes. It's always connected to the demon, or, at least, it _was_. I saw you earlier, though. There was a little girl. She was possessed, and she killed you."

"You think it's back?"

"Fat chance," Dean scoffed, "I killed the damn thing half a century ago. No way in Hell it's back. This is something different. It already sent an assassin after Sammy-"

Rosie held up a hand to silence the young man as a little light bulb went off over her head and a disturbing thought came to mind. She had been so focused on the time of day, the arrival of the two men, and their mention of the old house fire that had almost ripped apart her family that it hadn't hit her until just that moment. "Get out of my house," she whispered, suddenly scared.

"Excuse me?"

"Now," she insisted, "just leave. I don't know what you are, but I'll have you know that I'm a black belt, and if you don't get out right this minute-"

"Woah, lady," Dean muttered, getting to his feet as her eyes darted around the room, "calm down. I've told you twice already-"

"I don't know what you're doing to block me, but I'm not going to fall for it."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, standing up to join his brother as the old woman glared at them, mistrust written plainly in her deep brown eyes.

"You couldn't have saved me from that fire. That was over fifty years ago. There's no way you killed that demon, either, at least not when you say you did. You're too young. Now leave before I call the cops!"

"Aw, come on, Rosie," Dean pleaded even as he began backing towards the door. The last thing they needed was an arresting officer performing a strip search.

With surprising grace, the old woman leapt from her chair and kicked out at Sam, her foot hitting him hard in the stomach and knocking the wind out of him before sending him falling back into a shelf. He turned to fight back, but too slow as she jumped up and her fist caught his nose. An audible crack echoed through the lonely house as Dean grabbed his bleeding and winded brother and pulled him toward the front door.

"And stay out!" Rosie yelled, slamming the door behind them as the sun began its journey through the sky.


	3. Chapter 3

Yet another short chapter. Bear with me here, people, I'm just afraid that my updates will eventually catch up with what I';m working on and then it'll take time. I don't know about you, but I hate to wait for updates :)

* * *

"Dude," Dean chuckled as he and his brother walked away from the house, deeming any other means of transportation risky due to the amount of light and early-risers in the small Wisconsin town, "that old lady totally broke your nose."

"Shudub, Deed," Sam muttered, popping his nose back into place and sniffling a little to clear excess blood from his sinuses, "we've gotta go back."

"Are you kidding me? She'll call the cops. You know what'll happen when Bubba gets us in the back room for a quick search? 'Oh, geez, boys. Little early for Halloween, isn't it? Holy crud… they're real!' You know what they do with people like us, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged, throwing a worried glance back at Rosie's house. "Lock them up in secret government organizations and train them to be the perfect soldiers?"

The older man rolled his eyes. "Jessica Alba's dead, man, and that show ain't coming back, so drop it already." He sighed. "You're right, though. They'd lock us up and experiment on us. Maybe perform an autopsy, and, trust me, you don't wanna be awake for that."

"Dean."

"Seriously, dude. I'm speaking from experience here. Watching someone poke at your heart doesn't exactly constitute a good time."

"_Dean_." The older brother turned at the sense of urgency in Sam's voice and held out his hands just as the younger man swayed, knees buckling beneath him as his eyes glazed over.

o0o0o0o

The old man stood at the edge of the dam, watching the water cascade into the pool that had formed at the bottom of the large concrete wall. It was hard to believe that so much time had passed since that long-ago day when he'd shot his brother.

Andrew Gallagher sighed, gazing off into the murky grey sky. He shoved his hands roughly into the pockets of his crisp new slacks. He had finally decided to take the business route, tiring of the life of a wanderer shortly after he'd almost lost his life to a drifter with black eyes.

He shuddered at the memory of the scruffy man that had approached him outside the small town's diner, eyes black as coal, smooth voice promising control of Andy's gift if he would just join the homeless old man.

Andy had refused, and the drifter had called out to his friends, people like Andy who had joined up. They were people who had control of their abilities. Shortly after melting from the shadows, though, those people had all started screaming and clutching at gaping holes in their stomachs, like they'd been stabbed by an invisible knife.

That single episode had startled Andrew from his peaceful life of minimal possessions and launched him into the world of psychology. He'd passed his college courses and obtained a degree with minimal effort, and opened up a nice little office in town where he counseled people that were considering committing suicide. Naturally, all of them lived.

He pulled his jacket more tightly around his thin, aging frame and stared into the murky depths of the water. The dam was his best thinking spot, where he always went to clear his mind. The sound of the rushing water was oddly calming, and no one else ever ventured out to the old dam.

He heard a small sound behind him, a little shuffle, and turned. Standing behind him was a middle-aged woman he'd never seen before, her eyes black as night, just like the long-ago drifter.

"Leave me alone," he commanded, staring straight at the stranger.

She smiled. "Oh, Andrew," the woman cooed, "that won't work on me." She reached out and grabbed a handful of his jacket before slamming his head down against the metal railing and smiling at the flow of fresh blood that resulted.

The woman slammed her victim's head against the cool steel again and again, her cackling laughter lifting itself high into the sky as the heavens sent forth a sprinkling of rain.

The demon let Andy fall from its grip as soon as it was sure he was dead. As the rain soaked its host's blood-drenched body, the creature took its leave, spiraling high into the pouring sky. Yes, its father would be _very_ pleased.

o0o0o0o

"Sam! Sammy, dude, talk to me here. You ok?"

Sam opened his eyes and squirmed in his big brother's grip, gazing around the abandoned street as pain shot quickly through his head before dissipating just as fast. "Andy," he muttered, "they're going after Andy."


	4. Chapter 4

All right. Time for another chapter. The good news is, I'm getting really close to finishing it (I think...).

* * *

Sam paced the room, throwing a worried glance at his brother every few minutes, silently pleading with the older man for help. Dean was sitting on the lumpy motel mattress, watching with mild interest as his brother attempted to cut a path through the thick shag carpeting of their latest home.

"Dude, relax, will you?" he sighed, "we know where these things are gonna strike, and we know who they're gonna hit, so it shouldn't be too hard to stop them."

"How can we save them both?" Sam asked, stopping his pacing for a moment to question his brother, "Rosie thinks we're nuts and Andy's miles away. There's no way we can help them both."

"What if we split up?"

"Split up?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "you go find Andy and I'll stay here and watch Rosie. _Split up_."

"I dunno," Sam said slowly, sinking onto his bed, "what if something happens to you?"

The elder rolled his eyes. "You're gonna have to get over that old guilt there, Sammy. The cult's gone, and the chances of some more psychopaths popping up, kidnapping, and disemboweling me are slim to none. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"You sure?"

"I'll be _fine_. Honestly, what part of 'immortal freak with wings and supernatural strength' do you not understand?"

Sam sighed, looking down at his feet. "All right. I guess that's the logical thing to do. Just call me if you get into any trouble, ok?"

"Dude, she's like, fifty. I think I can handle a little old lady."

"Just watch your nose."

o0o0o0o

Dean sat in an old folding chair on the street corner near Rosie's house, strumming out a little tune on the guitar he'd (ahem) _borrowed_ from a thrift store just outside city limits. A few teens walking to school had stopped to listen, and a young couple out for an early morning stroll had thrown some change into the battered baseball cap Sam had gotten him for his seventy-fifth birthday.

He began to sing, not a song he would usually have been caught dead knowing the lyrics to, his trained eyes never leaving the old psychic's house. A pretty little blonde with two Yorkies on bright pink leashes walked by, tossing a buck into his cap. He nodded his thanks without meeting her eyes.

He turned to glance down the street and saw a little girl, probably about nine years old, skipping along the sidewalk. "Girl, you make it hard to be faithful," he sang, watching the child carefully, "with the lips of an angel."

The kid stopped her skipping right in front of him and tossed a dime into his cap. "You know," she smiled sweetly, eyes turning black as he stopped his strumming and watched her, "if this whole 'life-saving' thing doesn't work out, you could probably make it big as a singer." Giggling to herself, she set off down the street again.

Dropping his guitar, Dean checked the surrounding area, shed his jacket, and took to the skies after her.

o0o0o0o

"Hello, ma'am," the adorable nine-year-old announced as Rosie Wilkinson opened the door, "I'm selling cookies for my school's fundraiser. Would you like to buy some?"

Rosie's brow creased in confusion as she reached back into the house for her purse. The 55 year old had never met anyone like this girl before. Usually, she could read anyone, find out their innermost secrets and desires, but all she got from the elementary schooler was a hiss of static. It was unnerving.

The aging psychic turned back to the girl with the money only to find the child gone. Rosie looked around, searching the streets, but there was no sign of her. Shrugging, the old woman went back into her house for an early lunch.

She had just settled down at the table with a cold sandwich when the static again filled her head, drowning out all other thoughts. Rosie turned to find the little girl standing behind her with a very sharp knife clutched in one tiny hand.

"What are you doing?" the old woman asked as the girl drew closer.

"Daddy will be so proud of me," the little girl cooed as her eyes turned black and she attacked.

Rosie jumped from her seat just as the girl slashed out with the knife, sending the cool metal whistling through the air. The psychic ran from her small dining room into the kitchen, hoping to grab a weapon for herself just as she heard a window shattering overhead.

The demon stopped her chase and looked up toward the ceiling. "Meddling featherhead," it muttered. It was distracted just long enough for Rosie to grab the salt from her counter and draw a protective ring around herself.

From the other room, the psychic heard a crash followed by a sinister giggle. The kitchen door blew open as the little girl walked in, wiping bloody hands down the front of its dress. "Spare a steak knife?" it asked sweetly, nose wrinkling at the sight of the salt. "Oh, come now, Rosalind. Is that the best you've got?"

It walked slowly to one of the drawers and pulled it open, searching for a suitable weapon. "Here we go," the demon grinned, pulling out a steak knife and turning it over in its hand, watching the light blink off it and reflect onto the ceiling.

"You can't cross the line," Rosie whispered, her heart racing as she watched the possessed child stalk closer and closer to the ring.

"I can if it's broken," the demon replied, stooping and blowing at the salt, effectively dispersing it. "There now," it cooed, "time to say good-bye."

Rosie shrunk away from the child, gritting her teeth and preparing for the end just as a hand wrapped around the little girl's shoulder. The demon shrieked loudly, throwing the girl's head back and streaming from her mouth in a swirl of black vapor.

The child's head drooped and the hand released its hold, sending her slumping to the floor. Rosie looked up at her savior to find one of the men that had visited her earlier that day. She gasped loudly as her eyes found the knife still sticking out of his chest, and she slid down to the floor, unconscious.

o0o0o0o

"Andy?" Sam called, walking out onto the dam and pulling his jacket tightly around his body as the rain he'd predicted began to fall. He quickened his already hurried pace to a full-on sprint, stumbling a little due to the still-unfamiliar weight on his back. "Andy!"

He saw a car, a little beat up, just ahead, and ran toward it. He peeked in through the front passenger window, hoping that maybe his vision hadn't come true, that maybe Andy was still inside the vehicle, if it was even his. No such luck. The old car was empty.

"Andy!" Sam yelled again, continuing his search. He didn't have far to go, he soon discovered, because Andrew Gallagher's limp form was resting silently by the railing.

The angel slowed and walked up to the body of his friend. He knelt down beside the old man, cradling the psychic's broken head in his large hands. There was a small chance he could still save the old man, heal the damage the demon had done. Hell, Dean had resurrected the dead before, so it was possible, right?

"Come on, man," Sam pleaded, "it's not your time." He smiled weakly as his hands began to glow, but all happiness was wiped from his face quickly as something heavy smashed down on his head, sending his world spiraling into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

OK, so the story's finally finished, and updates will be as regular as possible. I've got to say, I'm liking this one :)

* * *

Rosie lifted her head slowly and looked around. She was lying on the couch in her living room. The old woman breathed a sigh of relief. The demon attack had only been a dream, a horrible dream. Then she saw the man.

He was wearing the same torn-up jeans and leather jacket he'd been wearing when he'd been stabbed in her dream, and currently had his back to her. By shifting slowly on the couch, Rosie could see that he was hovering over the silent form of the small possessed girl. The knife the girl had tried to kill her with lay on the coffee table, drenched in tacky blood.

Careful of the creaky couch springs, Rosie got to her feet. She reached out and pulled the knife silently from the table. She watched the handsome stranger, her alert eyes widening as an ethereal golden glow spread out over the young girl's body.

The psychic couldn't stand by idly and watch anymore. The intruder, who was obviously anything but human, was doing something to the now-defenseless child. "Hey," Rosie shouted, "who do you think you are?"

The man turned, a look of surprise on his face, and she slashed out with him, tearing a long, thin line through his throat. The stranger fell, clutching at the wound as it bled, and Rosie dropped her weapon to scoop the girl up in her arms.

She ran towards the front door with the limp child, stopping at the long line of salt that had been laid out. Glancing out the window, the psychic saw a teenage boy pacing in her lawn. He looked toward the house and smiled, eyes turning black as he approached the window.

"Hey there, freak," he cooed, "can I come in?"

Rosie closed her eyes, trying to come up with a good plan. Obviously the man that had earlier introduced himself as Dean Winchester wasn't what he appeared. No, he was something immortal, something that probably wanted to kill her as much as the demon waiting outside.

Nothing like being stuck between a rock and a hard place, huh?

She drew herself up, clutching the child protectively to her chest, and opened her eyes, bound and determined to leave her house, even if it meant facing another demonic threat. The psychic was surprised, however, to find that the possessed boy had moved from his place.

Gee, maybe it had something to do with the ominous shadow looming over her.

Gasping, Rosie spun on her heels and backed up against the closed door, eyes widening as they fell on the long, bloody gash in the man's throat.

"Going somewhere?" Dean asked, his voice barely a whisper as the skin around the wound flapped with wasted air.

"What are you?" Rosie demanded, leaning farther into the door and glancing back toward the window to find that her little teenaged friend had returned.

"Relax," the man said in his now-paper-thin voice, "I'm one of the good guys."

"Sure," Rosie scoffed, "that's why you can't die. Why you broke in. That's why you were trying to hurt this girl."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Honestly," he muttered, beginning to shrug off his jacket. Rosie made a move toward the doorknob. "Wouldn't do that," he advised, "trust me, you'd be worse off out there than in here."

The psychic dropped her hand and watched him warily. Her eyes widened again, this time more in wonderment than fear as the demon outside the window hissed and backed away from the house.

"You're an angel," she whispered, eyes scanning the white wings with awe, "you…"

"I saved you," he said, clapping a hand over the gash in his throat in order to be heard, "but I hurt the kid in the process. Wanted to make things right." His hand began to glow as the old psychic watched. "I was trying to fix her shoulder," he explained, taking his hand from his neck and pointing to the handprint-shaped burn on the child's shoulder, "but you stopped me. Mind if I finish?"

Still amazed, Rosie nodded and handed over the little girl. "So, you and your brother," she said slowly, "you really did save me all those years ago."

Dean nodded, placing a hand gently on the girl's shoulder. "Before we were so heavenly, yeah."

"Where is he?" the psychic asked, suddenly realizing that someone was missing from the picture.

"Sam? Here's helping out a friend of ours in Oklahoma. He'll be back soon. Until then, it's probably best we stay put. Unless, that is, you like trying to outrun gaggles of demons, because Hellboy out there isn't the only new friend you could make today."

"There are more?"

"Probably. We'll wait for Sam. Until then, stay in the house." He handed the girl back to the psychic, "watch her," he ordered, "I've gotta finish with the windows and doors."

He walked by, accidentally brushing her with one of his wings. "They're warm," Rosie gasped.

Dean chuckled, placing his hand on the door and watching as the wood began to glow softly. "I've heard."

"What are you doing?"

He turned back to her, smiling. "Blessing the house. Wanna make sure nothing gets in. In case you didn't hear, I kinda broke your bedroom window trying to save you."

She grinned, eyes tracing the long trail of blood that lead from his neck past the hole in his shirt and to the waistband of his jeans. "From the look of things, I'd say you're the one who needs saving."

"This from the crazy lady who decided to try slicing my jugular?"

"I deserved that," she nodded, "but I thought you were something else. You'll have to excuse my manners."

"Well," he shrugged, "consider your manners excused. Now, I have the sinking feeling that we've got a long wait ahead of us. So, tell me, Rosie, how'd you learn to kick like that? 'Cause seriously, this morning, you broke my brother's nose."

o0o0o0o

Sam could tell he'd been kidnapped again just by looking around the room. The walls were wooden and bare, the floor the same. A single chair sat in one corner of the room, but that was the only furniture that he could see. There was a door, plain and brown, like the rest of the room, near him.

His head throbbed dully and his arms were both asleep. He looked up and saw that his wrists had been cuffed and attached above his head to the wall. His wings were spread out painfully behind him, practically plastered to the wall.

The door to the room opened, and in that split second Sammy could see that he was being held in a cabin, apparently a very nice one, judging by the size of the other room. His concentration was pulled from the size of the building, however, when he caught a glimpse of the thing that walked through the door and into his 'cell.'

It was a young man, probably somewhere in his early twenties, with long blond hair and a well-built body. He was clad in a simple white t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. Basically, he could be your neighbor, fifth grade teacher, or even your hotter, albeit annoying, older brother.

Well, if not for the orange eyes.

Yeah, that was kind of weird.

The man locked eyes with Sam, smiling widely. "Well, well, well," he said, voice smooth, almost musical, "if it isn't the great Sammy Winchester. You know, kid, I've been looking for you for a long time. Kind of hard to find within that sacred house of yours."

Sam's brow wrinkled with confusion as he stared down what could only have been a demon. "What are you talking about?"

The orange eyes sparkled, glowing out of the young man's face like an unholy fire as he slowly licked his lips before answering. "You mean Dean didn't tell you? Kept you out of the loop, huh? Just like he did with the gun. Well, if you must know, your brother blessed your old house. The one in Michigan. He wanted to make sure you were both safe."

"But Angelina-"

"Oh, yes," it nodded, grinning happily, "Angelina. Took her nearly five years to find you, a couple of months to figure out how to get to you. You invited her in, Sammy. You opened the door for evil to enter your humble abode. You're the one who made it possible for her to get the gun and shoot you in the heart.

"Of course, you didn't die. Fortunately, it only took us about a week to figure that out. I've been tracking you down ever since. Well, you and the other children like you, of course."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, suddenly very interested. Maybe Dean had been right after all, maybe there was a new demon in town ordering its underlings to take out various psychics. The only question was why.

"I'm talking about war," the demon explained, stepping up to the angel and tracing a cool finger down his cheek. "The war my brother was bound and determined to start, recruiting people like you, turning you to fight for our side. The only problem is that the other guys caught on. They started recruiting, too. That wouldn't have been such a big issue, had my brother lived to finish his work."

It pulled its finger away, looking at the damage the angel had caused. Where a thin, pale index finger once sat, now there was only a stump.


	6. Chapter 6

Well, I tied Sam up in a cabin and can only assume that you're all dying to get there and, erm, keep him company...

* * *

"I realized I wasn't like everyone else in my teens," Rosie explained, staring into her coffee cup as she sat across from the angel in her kitchen, "I went looking for answers, and found a local psychic. He helped me realize what I was, got me into this whole thing. He told me about the things that lurk in the dark, and told me to protect myself."

Dean nodded. "Any idea why these things are coming after you now?"

"No. Maybe they just got wind that I was alive and thought I shouldn't be."

The angel shook his head. "I thought the same thing. Sam got attacked a couple of months back. The girl was possessed. She tried to kill him. I just figured it was only him, but then he started having visions. More of them, and more often. All of them were about demons killing people. It seemed random at first, but now with you and Andy…"

"You think there's a pattern."

"I think something wants these psychics dead."

The old woman sighed. "Well, how many have they killed already?"

"Impossible to tell. Sam knows of about five. We saved two. Then there's you and Andy. And Sammy, of course."

"At least the deaths will taper off soon."

"What do you mean?"

Rosie shrugged. "Well, there can't be that many, right? I mean, you killed it. It can't make more psychics."

"I guess that makes sense," Dean said, glancing back towards the living room as the soft sound of footsteps reached his ears, "if it's the one that makes them."

The psychic opened her mouth to respond as the little girl walked into the room rubbing her eyes. "What happened?" she asked groggily, "I was going to school, and then everything got all cold. I tried to scream, but I couldn't, and it got real dark. Then it was warm, and there was this light, and I felt better." Her eyes fell on Dean and widened instantly. "Am I _dead_?"

Rosie smiled warmly. "Far from it," she said softly, "he saved you."

The girl looked up at him, padding into the kitchen and smiling sweetly. "Thanks, mister," she said.

"Don't mention it," the angel said, "now, can you tell me your name?"

"Sophie," she answered without hesitation, "can I go home now?"

"'Fraid it's not that simple, kiddo. See, there are some bad guys outside, and as long as you're in here, you're safe. So, I need you to stay put. Can you do that for me?"

The girl nodded, eyes wide as saucers.

"Going somewhere?" Rosie asked.

Dean turned to her, then glanced at his watch. "Sam should have been back by now. I need to go find him."

"Do you even know where to start looking?"

"Oklahoma," Dean shrugged, "that's where he was heading-" He looked down as he felt a tug on his wing. "Yeah?"

Sophie stared up at him, blue eyes shining. "The thing that made it dark and cold said something about Oregon," she said softly, "it said to head out to Davenport. I know it's in Oregon 'cause that's where I used to live before we moved. Maybe he's there."

"Thanks, Sophie," Dean grinned, "now, mind Rosie and don't leave the house." He looked back at the psychic, "I'll be back soon. The house should be safe."

The old woman nodded. "I'll take care of the girl. Go find your brother. It'll set your mind at ease."

He glanced over his shoulder at her as he left the room, heading for the broken upstairs window he'd used to get into the house and wondering just how long she'd been going through his head.

o0o0o0o0o

Davenport, Oregon was a sleepy little town. As far as Dean could tell as he wandered the streets, jacket pulled tight, nothing ever went on there. The streets seemed barren and empty, save the sound of hurried footfalls behind him.

The angel turned in time to see a young boy, no older than thirteen, barreling down the street toward him. He had just enough time to wonder why the kid was running and pulling off thick gloves in the middle of May when the boy hit him straight on.

A look of panic crossed the kid's face as his bare hands slid down Dean's arms and he pushed himself away. The angel stumbled back, watching the boy leave, as an unsettling tingle ran through his body.

He recovered just in time to have someone slam into his arm. The woman spun, clutching her own arm where they'd touched and hissing as her eyes turned black. She picked up her pace and went after the kid, ignoring the intruder for the time being.

Dean sighed, watching the possessed woman skirt around the corner after the boy. That explained why the demon from Wisconsin had been talking about Davenport.

Glancing around the empty street, Dean stripped his jacket off and gave chase.

o0o0o0o

Benji Peters had always been a good kid. A little reckless, sure, but good. He hadn't meant to do it, hadn't even known he could. It was an accident, and he missed his big sister terribly.

After that day, two months before, he'd vowed to never touch another living creature with his bare hands. But he hadn't seen that guy, the one in the leather jacket. He'd been too distracted by the thing that was chasing him, too busy debating whether or not he should go back on his promise and take off the gloves he'd worn for safety for so long.

Now that man was surely dead, just a pile of clothing and ash left on the sidewalk, and it was all Benji's fault.

Worse yet, the thing was gaining, calling his name with a cold, heartless version of his neighbor's voice.

He turned a corner and shot down an alleyway, overturning trashcans as he went in a futile effort to block his pursuer's path. He hoped it worked, because it didn't take him long to come to a dead end.

Benji turned from the brick wall blocking his escape to find Ms. Cutler bearing down upon him, black eyes glinting in the midday sunshine.

"St-stay back," he cautioned, holding out his hand toward her, "I mean it."

She stopped, looking the boy over and seeming to appraise him. "I know what you can do, Benji," she cooed, "and I'll stay back if you want. It must be so hard for you… living everyday with what you did to your poor sister, what you could do to other people. It's a burden a young boy like you shouldn't have to bear. I can take it from you, you know."

She took a step forward and Benji took a step back, pressing himself up flat against the wall, hand still held out toward her. "How?"

Ms. Cutler smiled sweetly. "Drop your hand, come closer, and I'll show you."

Never one to disobey his elders (he _was_ a good kid, after all), Benji did as he was told, glancing up momentarily as a large shadow passed overhead. Ms. Cutler didn't seem to notice the shadow, though, and reached into her purse.

"What happened to your arm?" Benji asked, noticing the nasty red burn that covered her forearm.

"I touched something I shouldn't have, apparently," she said calmly, rummaging in her bag a little before finally pulling out a tiny pair of very sharp scissors. "Now, come closer."

Benji took a step back. "What are you gonna do?"

"Put you out of your misery, of course," the woman answered, her smile widening, "come here."

"I changed my mind," the boy said, backing up against the wall and holding his hand out again. Ms. Cutler didn't seemed to care, and ran at him with her weapon held out at arm's length.

Suddenly, a rock came sailing through the air from above them and hit the older woman in the head. She fell, eyes sliding closed, right in front of the boy, whose hand was still out. The scissors grazed his palm, drawing a thin line of red as she fell.

For a minute, Benji just stood there, looking at his unconscious neighbor and wondering where the rock had come from. He heard a rustle above him and looked up in time to see someone jump off the building.

The boy's eyes went wide as a man landed in front of him, jacket in hand, wings folded behind him. "You're-" Benji gaped.

The guy turned around, flashing a quick smile at the boy. "Run," he ordered, "go home. Don't look back."

"You're not dead," the kid whispered, looking down at his hands in astonishment.

"Why would I be?" the angel asked, grabbing Benji's arm and pushing him away from the wall and the fallen woman, "now run!"

Benji started off out of the alleyway, only looking back once. Once was enough, however, to see Ms. Cutler rise from the ground and stab the scissors into the angel's chest.

O0o0o0o

"I wanna know why."

A wide smile split the possessed man's face. "You mean why'd I'd kill mommy and pretty little Jess?" it chuckled as recognition crossed the hunter's face at the familiarity of the line.

"Why kill the _psychics_?" Sam hissed, pulling on his restraints. He'd secretly been itching to try and find out if he possessed the same amount of strength his brother had been known to display at times.

"You're all a danger," the demon stated simply, popping its stump of a finger into its stolen mouth.

"Not to you," Sam scoffed, "we were meant to be your soldiers in that war."

"True," it nodded, "you _were_ going to be ours, until that bird-brained brother of yours ruined everything."

"Who, Dean?"

"No, your _other_ winged sibling," the demon replied, rolling its bright orange eyes.

"How did Dean ruin your war?"

The man in front of him walked closer, looking him up and down, appraising him, until they were almost nose-to-nose. "He killed my brother."


	7. Chapter 7

Bout time we had a long chapter, huh?

Just a word of warning on this one (OK, more like an explanation): last year at lunch my friends and I decided to try and name YED (becuase calling him 'The Yellow-Eyed Demon' all the time was starting to get old), and my suggestion was the one that stuck. Just get ready to see it popping up in this chapter :)

* * *

"What'd you do that for?" Dean groaned, standing up and gazing placidly at his attacker. The woman gasped, black eyes growing wide with shock. "Oh, come on. You had to have known it wouldn't kill me."

The woman began screaming, twisting around as if she was trying to reach something behind her, something the angel couldn't see. He took a cautious step back as a series of lines began running across the possessed woman's skin, cracking and drying. With one final shriek, she burst into a cloud of grey ash and floated away on the breeze to reveal the young boy that had been standing behind her.

His eyes were leaking and he was biting his lower lip. His hands were held out in front of him, and were covered in a light dusting of ash. "I-I had to," he sobbed, "she killed you."

Dean nodded, holding out a hand to the kid, who flinched and pulled back.

"Don't touch me!" he yelped.

"Ok, ok," Dean soothed, "I won't. Can you tell me your name?"

"B-Benji. Benji Peters."

"All right. Benji, I'm Dean."

The boy gulped and nodded. "You, uh," he muttered, eyes moving from the angel to his hands before finally finding the ground, "you have scissors sticking out of your chest."

Dean glanced down at the wound. "Look at that. I do." He turned away from the kid and, taking the handle of the scissors, pulled the weapon out of his flesh. There was a sound like a sturdy shoe shuffling through winter slush, and then the scissors were out and the blood was flowing freely.

Grimacing, the angel tossed the dripping scissors to the ground and pressed a hand to his blood-soaked shirt. He turned around, a little surprised to find Benji still standing there, staring at him. "Better?" he asked, flashing a nervous smile at the boy.

Benji nodded. "I guess. What was that thing? I mean, it _looked_ like my neighbor, but-"

Dean sighed, taking his hand from the now non-existent wound and wiping it absently on his jeans. He went to wrap a comforting arm around the kid, but stopped as the boy jumped away.

"Ok," he conceded, "you don't like to be touched. I get it." He glanced at Benji's hand, "but, you know, I could help you out with that hand there. That's a pretty nasty cut."

Benji glanced down at the expanding line of blood on his hand before shoving it roughly into his pants pocket. "Just tell me what that thing was."

The angel nodded. "All right… Benji, is it? Tell me, Benji, do you believe in demons?"

o0o0o0o

"Wait, are you saying that the yellow-eyed demon-?"

The man with the orange eyes smiled, bobbing its stolen head up and down slowly. "You could say that. _I_ never wasted my breath with all those nasty adjectives, though. I just called him Frank."

"Frank?" Sam asked incredulously, "you're kidding, right?"

The demon shook its head. "It started as a joke, and just kind of stuck. You have a problem with that?"

"'Course not," Sammy sighed, tugging again at the restraints that were holding him fast to the wall, "it's how all the best nicknames start. So, you were saying…"

"Ah, of course," the creature in front of him chuckled, "you'll have to excuse me for wandering a bit there. Old age and all. You can relate… or, at least, you could have a couple of months ago, am I right?"

Sam averted his eyes, searching the poorly furnished room for anything that could be of use in his (hopefully) eventual escape.

"Oh, that's right," it cooed, apparently taking the captive's silence as an answer, "I forgot. You didn't have to go through any of that typical human degeneration, did you? No, big brother was always there to save you, wasn't he? You know, some people would call that a misuse of those abilities of his."

"You know," Sam muttered, "ol' Frankie might've accused you of the same."

The demon took a step back, hands flying to its heart in mock shock. "Really? Why's that?"

"Sending out your little minions to exterminate your soldiers-"

"First off, Flyboy, they're not my soldiers. They were his. Second, I'm using what I've got to save myself and everybody like me."

"Funny," Sammy scoffed, "I didn't realize there was loyalty among demons."

"There's not. If there was, we wouldn't even be here right now. You see, when my brother clawed his way out of our 'tropical paradise,' he never intended to start a war. Never thought he'd end up dead. No, he just wanted to raise a little Hell, that's all."

"Why take the time to recruit an army, then?"

The demon sighed. "He didn't mean to, not really. It was an accident that he even found you blasted kids. He sensed the power coming off of you all in waves, and he wanted to make it his own. He went after a few, slaughtered them while they slept, tried to absorb whatever it was they could do, but it wasn't enough. It had been weakened. He needed them alive.

"He went after the children, kids just like you, and he touched them. He _marked_ them so he could find them later. Sometimes, if he got interrupted, he'd flambé a woman or two on the ceiling. He planned to track those kids, waiting for them to grow into their powers and become overwhelmed by them. He wanted to offer them 'help.' He still hadn't officially declared war, and wouldn't have a reason to for another two years."

"If he was building up an army, though, why wait?'

"Because he wasn't building an army, Sammy, not back then. Back then, he was just a collector. He wanted those amazing abilities all to himself. He never would have sent those kids into danger. He wanted them too much for that."

Sam narrowed his eyes, staring straight at the possessed man, who had a sort of sad smile plastered on his stolen face. "What happened two years after he came to Earth, then? What made him declare war?"

The demon dropped its murky-bright eyes, its smile widening. "November 2, 1983, of course."

o0o0o0o

"You're crazy!" Benji shouted as he raced out of the alleyway and into the desolate streets of Davenport.

"Wait up," Dean yelled as he struggled into his jacket and ran after the kid, "hey!"

Benji stopped in the middle of the street and turned, anger and confusion and fear written plainly across his face. "I'm not sure what the hell you think you are," he challenged, pulling his injured hand from his pocket and holding it out towards the angel, "but you don't want to come any closer."

"What are you gonna do," Dean asked, slowing to a walk as he approached the scared boy, "go all 'War of the Worlds' on my ass? Huh? You gonna disintegrate me or something?"

The kid took a shaky step back. "I'm warning you-"

"And I'm _telling_ you," the angel interrupted, grabbing the boy's wounded hand and holding it tightly in his own, even as that disturbing tingle once again passed through his body, "if some crazy old lady with safety scissors couldn't kill me, you sure as hell can't."

o0o0o0o

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, trying to hide all signs of shock from the demon and failing miserably, judging by the evil glint in the creature's eyes. It knew it had struck a chord.

"I'm talking, of course, about the catalyst that launched my brother down the warpath. When he went into the peaceful house in Lawrence that night all those years ago, Sammy, do you know what he found?" Sam opened his mouth to reply, but was quickly cut off. "It's not what you'd expect, I assure you. It's most certainly not what Frank was after."

"Not a psychic kid?"

"Oh, no. Far from it. He told me the story after time. He wanted to warn me as soon as he found out that your father was training you and your brother to hunt. I didn't believe it at first, not until I saw it with my own eyes."

"What was it?"

The demon smirked. "Proof, in a way. Proof that things could go wrong. Proof that my big brother might not be able to get all the little psychic children he wanted. Not without a fight."

"Is that why he killed my mom?" Sam asked as everything clicked together in his head, "he thought she would stand in the way?"

"No, of course not. Sammy, my brother only killed your mom to prevent what he found that night to be inevitable."

"And what's that?"

"He knew he would lose you if he didn't do something, Sam. He could feel it in his bones. He knew it as soon as he saw what was in that bedroom."

Sammy rolled his eyes. "Could you get to the point already? I'm practically falling asleep here waiting for something that'll probably be anti-climactic at best."

"He saw a warrior," the demon breathed, "a warrior for good. Destined to bring an end to my brother's plans. The kid radiated light and warmth and safety. Even then, Frank knew what had to be done. He had to get rid of the kid, had to break him, put that light out. He killed your mother in the hopes that without that maternal love the light would extinguish and hope would be lost. He hoped that evil would triumph and you would be ours.

"Actually, by killing Mary, he did the exact opposite. By killing your mother, he sent the warrior into a sort of boot camp. The light dimmed, but the warmth stayed. The good in that kid's heart grew even as he learned how to kill. When the time came, he got his wings and destroyed my only brother."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Sam muttered, "are you trying to tell me that Dean-?"

The demon nodded. "It's destiny."

"Dean doesn't believe in destiny."

"But _you_ do. I mean, you have to admit, it makes sense. Why else would a person suddenly sprout wings? It ain't 'cause God's got a kickin' sense of humor, I can tell you that much. Your brother is a warrior, Sammy, born and bred. He was meant to do this. He was meant to fight us."

"Why kidnap me, then?" Sam asked, "if you think that's true, you should know he's gonna come after me, and-"

"Don't worry so much about me, Psychic boy. If anything, you should be worried about Dean. What we've got planned for him… well, it's _hardly_ Heavenly."

Flashing one last, toothy smile, the demon turned on its heels and left, closing and locking the door to Sammy's room behind it.

The angel let out a long sigh, a breath he hadn't even known he was holding. He closed his eyes and let his head hang, the day's installment of Demonic Story Time playing over and over in his head.

It couldn't be true. Sure, Dean was a natural-born warrior, the perfect soldier, but he was far from heavenly, far from being chosen by God Himself for some sort of army of good.

Still, the more he thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. There had always been something about Dean, something comforting. Whenever the older man had entered a room, Sam had known instinctively that everything would be all right, no matter the problem.

Even the whole wing-thing, ironic as it seemed, made sense. It had seemed to fit. And he'd just accepted it, given into it, hadn't really cared that he'd suddenly been thrown even farther into freakdom.

Hell, he'd even seemed _excited_ for a while there.

Yeah, the more Sammy thought, the more sense it made. He was too preoccupied with his big brother's destiny to even _start_ to concentrate on the demon's final words, the ones that threatened torture and death.

o0o0o0o

"It started a couple of months ago," Benji said slowly, "I didn't get it. I mean, I just went to hand my sister the OJ one morning, and she started screaming. She just… dissolved. I didn't mean to. I'm not a bad kid, you know? It just… it scared me."

Dean nodded. "Been there, more or less. Trust me, though, kid, it gets better. You get used to it, and eventually you realize that there's a reason for everything."

The boy turned to look up at him as they walked down Davenport's empty streets together. "Really?"

"Really. This thing of yours, it's gonna grow on you. No matter how much you try to fight it."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"You could say that," Dean shrugged, "hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you the only person living in this town? 'Cause, seriously, the whole place has got a major Twilight Zone vibe going for it."

Benji grinned. "Davenport's a small town. Most people either stay at home to work, or they commute. Kids are in daycare or hanging out at the mall in the next town over, and there's hardly anyone in the streets. You get used to it."

The angel nodded, gazing around the seemingly abandoned town as he walked the boy home, acting as personal escort and body guard. He never sensed the presence behind them, didn't think to glance over his shoulder, and by the time he had, it was too late.

The first bullet hit the boy in the back of the head, killing him instantly. The second went through Dean's shoulder as Benji fell. The third and final shot hit the angel in the eye as he turned to find his attacker.


	8. Chapter 8

This has got to be my all-time favorite chapter in this story, so i really hope you guys enjoy it.

Thanks as always to everyone who takes the time to review (I know it's hard to think up nice things to say!).

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the pain, a small throb in his shoulder, a sharp prickling in both of his wrists, and a dull ache radiating from his right eye and branching out across his face. He blinked once, twice, three times, attempting to open his hurt eye. Something tacky had sealed it shut.

Finally, he was able to pry it open and take in his surroundings. He was in a small room, his back against a cold wooden wall, wings flared out behind him. Across from him, on the other side of the room, Sam had been shackled by his wrists to the wall, and stood limply, staring at the floor.

"Close your eyes," the younger man muttered, his voice thick, "please."

Dean shook his head, attempting to clear the fog that now seemed to circle his brain. "What are you talking about?" he asked, feeling dried blood crackle across his face as he spoke, "what happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"I remember that kid… in Oregon. He could turn people to ash by touching them… there was a demon after him, but he killed it." Dean's eyes widened as the last few minutes of his life came rushing back. "There was another one," he muttered slowly, "up on the rooftop. It shot him. Shot him in the head-"

"Hate to bring up the blatantly obvious," Sam said quietly, his head still down, "but I think it got you, too."

Dean nodded. "Shoulder. I felt it. Must've hit my heart to kill me."

"Um… no."

"Well that's the last thing I remember clearly. Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Where do I begin?"

The older brother rolled his eyes, glancing around the room again until he happened to spot the source of pain in his wrists. "Sammy," he began calmly, "is there any reason I'm nailed to the wall?"

Sam shrugged, still not looking up at his big brother. "They didn't have another set of cuffs?"

"Well, is there a reason you're not looking at me?"

Sammy sighed, wings drooping as much as they could in his position. "She hit you in the eye, Dean," he said quietly, "your right eye's completely gone."

Dean leaned his head back against the cool wall, relaxing his body and feeling a small tug in his wrists as bone and tendon rubbed against the nails. "Perfect," he whispered, "just peachy. I guess this means you're squeamish now, huh?"

"Just close your freakin' eye."

The older man did as his was told and snapped his head back up to find Sam staring at him. "So, how'd you get here?"

"The one that killed Andy stuck around and knocked me out. What were you doing in Oregon?"

"Got it on good authority that something was going down there. Don't suppose you know why we're here?"

"Kind of," Sam shrugged, "but not really. Hey, did you know yellow-eyes had a brother?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off as the door to the room opened. A blond man with nine fingers entered, gazing at both brothers and smiling as his eyes lit up with an eerie orange glow. "Hate to interrupt your game of 20 Questions, boys, but there is a pressing matter that we need to discuss."

"I'll say," Dean nodded, carefully keeping his right eye shut, "those contacts don't do you justice, man. No offense, but you look like a hyperactive 'Dukes of Hazzard' fan on crack."

The demon just raised an eyebrow, taking in its new captive and his attitude. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on. You know… 'The Dukes of Hazzard?' Two guys, a smoking' hot babe, and a bright orange car that would just about match your eyes. I know you've heard of it."

"Can't say that I have. So sorry." It shut the door, walking farther into the room to inspect Dean, stalking closer and closer until it was almost nose-to-nose with him. "My, my," it breathed, "look at you glow."

Dean leaned back against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to get away from the creature. "Dude, ever heard of Mentos?"

The demon smiled, taking a step back, and shook its head. "It's gotten brighter," it muttered, "we need to fix that."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The demon's smile widened, its eyes glinting maliciously. "I'm gonna let _you_ tell him, Sammy. There's something I need to get in the other room." Still smiling, it turned on stolen heels and walked quickly from the room.

"Dude," Dean began, watching with confusion as their captor left, "what was that about?"

"Remember our yellow-eyed friend from way back when? Turns out he had a brother."

"And that thing's it?"

Sammy nodded. "In the flesh."

"What's it want with us? Wait, is that the thing that's been sending demonic assassins after psychics?"

"To answer your questions in order, it's a long story, and yes."

"Well," the elder man smirked, "you know how much I love story time."

Sam gulped. "I have a feeling this one won't be so enjoyable."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Just tell me already."

"It thinks you're a warrior," Sam began slowly, testing the waters before plunging in too deep.

"I'll give it a warrior," the older man muttered, glancing over at his pinned wrists, "soon as someone comes along with a hammer."

"For God."

"What?"

"A warrior. For God. It thinks you're a warrior for God."

Dean rolled his eyes again, "Yeah, right. Come on, man, what do I look like, a freakin' angel or something?" The room fell silent for a moment as the brothers looked at each other, letting the stupidity of that statement sink in. "Don't answer that."

"It kind of makes sense, though, Dean. I mean, the thing said that Frank-"

"Frank?"

"The yellow-eyed demon."

"_Frank?_"

"Yes, Dean," Sam sighed, "_Frank._ Don't ask."

"Well now I gotta ask."

"It's a nickname."

"_Frank_?"

"Better than Sammy."

"True as that may be, _Samantha,_ who goes around asking to be called Frank?"

"Apparently, demons with yellow eyes," Sam muttered through clenched teeth, obviously starting to get annoyed, "now, do you want to know what you missed while you were off pretending to be Superman?"

"Fine," Dean conceded, shaking his head, "what did I miss, besides a rousing game of Name That Demon?'"

Sam straightened up a bit, taking a steadying breath and tugging again at his restraints. "It told me that when Yellow-eyes went to our house to get me, he saw you."

"Fascinating, 'cause, you know, it's not like I lived there or anything."

The younger man rolled his eyes. "Smartass. He said you were glowing or something. That's why he killed mom. He didn't want you to grow up and waste him. But it didn't work. It's destiny."

"Man, you know I don't give a crap about destiny."

"_You_ don't, but our new orange-eyed friend does," Sam pointed out, "that's why he's been killing the psychics. His brother found them, touched them, turned them, and was building an army for that war. Without Frank to go after them, though, they won't necessarily go dark side. This thing doesn't want people like me teaming up with you."

"Dude, I don't have a side. I'm not involved."

"Every war has more than one side, and you were recruited a long time ago."

"There's no such thing as destiny, Sam," Dean said, voice low, open eye narrowed.

"Explain the wings."

"I ticked off the wrong deity. You?"

Sam dropped his gaze, glanced toward the door, then turned his eyes back to his brother. His brother, who looked so beaten, and bloody, and broken, but felt no pain. His brother, who was missing an eyes, had a hole in his shoulder, and two nails sticking from his wrists. His brother, who had so adamantly refused to let him die. "What would you have done if I hadn't woken up?" Sammy whispered, "if Angelina had shot me and I'd stayed dead? Huh? What would you have done if I had died that day?"

Dean was saved the trouble of answering as the door to the room flew open and the demon entered, machete sheathed at his side and a wicked glint in his wild eyes.

"Hello, there, boys," the creature cooed, "having fun?"

Dean eyed the large knife wearily. "I'm gonna get gutted again, huh?"

The demon chuckled, pulling the machete out and inspecting it. "Of course not," it grinned, running it's stubby index finger across the blade, drawing blood, "actually, the knife is for your brother."

"Oh, tough break, there, kiddo," the older man said, grinning at his sibling, "trust me, though, it only stings a little."

The demon's grin widened. "Don't worry," it assured, "you'll both get a turn. See, originally, I was going to take Sammy here and cut him up, bit by agonizing bit, until nothing was left but little chunks of flesh." Both brothers shuddered visibly. "But I realized that that wouldn't kill him. He'd still be alive, and you," it turned to Dean, "would spend an eternity searching for all the little pieces and working on the puzzle that is your brother. I couldn't allow that."

"So you're gonna let us both go?"

"Hardly. See, if I want to completely destroy our favorite little Psychic Menace here, he needs to be mortal. There's only one way to do that."

"You wouldn't," Sam whispered, leaning closer to the wall.

"Oh, I would. And your brother will watch. It's the perfect torture for both of you. Pain, emotional and physical."

"How is you taking a chunk of his back going to hurt him emotionally?" Dean asked, already stalling as he tried to concoct a plan.

"Because I'm going to torture _you _first," it smiled, "and he's going to watch."

"Sorry I asked," Dean muttered as his captor approached, setting the machete down on a near-by table and pulling pliers out of its pocket.

The creature again got right up in his face, breathing a long, putrid sigh, grinning maniacally. "Open wide," it hissed, holding up the pliers.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," Dean moaned, pushing himself up against the wall.

"You wish," the demon replied, eyes glittering with malice as it forced the hunter's mouth open. It didn't take long for its fingers to start smoking and melting in the angel's mouth, but the creature had torture on its mind and wasn't about to stop because of a little pain.

It clamped the pliers around Dean's left front incisor and began to twist, ignoring its victim's grunts of pain and the blood that began to flow slowly from his gum. Finally, with one final yank, the demon pulled tooth and pliers from its victim's mouth.

"There," it grinned, wiping what was left of its fingers on its pants as it deposited its prize on the table, "that wasn't so hard, now, was it, Deanster?"

Dean stared the thing in the face and spit, covering the creature's stolen features with a mixture of blood and saliva that immediately started to eat away at the skin. "Bite me."

"Maybe I will," it smiled, swiping at its face, which had started to dissolve, "as soon as I finish up with Sammy, I'll be coming back for you. I'm gonna cut you up and scatter you across the globe. You'll stay that way forever, with no release. I'll make sure of it."

The angel stared into orange eyes, not saying a word, as his mouth filled with blood and his jaw throbbed. The demon spun on its heels and grabbed the machete, heading towards Sam. "That wasn't as fun as I'd thought," it muttered, getting up in Sammy's face and grinning, "maybe your pain will cheer me up."

It reached out and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt, pulling him away from the wall. The young man looked over his captor's shoulder, searching for his brother, pleading with shining green eyes for some sort of miraculous rescue. What he saw was Dean, head down, struggling to pull himself free of the wall. Blood ran freely from his shoulder, mouth, and wrists as he pulled against the nails that held him fast to the wood.

The demon leaned over Sam's shoulder, eyes sparkling as it lined the machete's sharp blade up with the top of the two holes Sam had cut in the back of his shirt. "It'll only hurt for a little while," it cooed, "then there won't be anymore pain. _Ever_."

The steel blade touched the angel's back and dug in to soft skin, drawing a line of blood that quickly soaked through the shirt and drenched the grey feathers closest to his shoulders. "Please," Sam begged, eyes still watching his brother, not exactly sure who he was pleading with, "_please_."

"No can do, Sammy," the demon whispered, sliding the knife down a couple of centimeters, licking its lips as more blood pooled and its victim stiffened in its grasp, "I have to save myself."

And then, Sam's back exploded with blinding, white-hot pain as the machete slowly traced its way farther down his spine, separating bone and skin and feathers from the hunter. Somewhere off in the distance, Sam could hear his brother howling, not in rage, but in pain. He didn't have time to wonder why, though, as his world finally faded to black, the pain dying slowly away.

o0o0o0o0o

His back was on fire. Searing pain traveled from a spot just above his shoulders, slowly tracing a line that matched exactly where that son of a bitch was carving away at his brother. Hell of a time for that on-again off-again empathy to rear its sissy head.

Trying to focus on something other than his burning shoulders, Dean hung his head and closed his eyes. The pain was spreading, he could feel it, nearing the small of his back, which meant Sam didn't have much longer.

Gritting his teeth and grimacing at the new, unfamiliar hole in his mouth, Dean braced himself, and lunged forward. Fresh pain blossomed from his wrists as the sickening sound of tearing bone and tendons filled the room. Blood began to pour freely from the wounds, but if Dean noticed, he didn't show it.

He ran at the demon, arms held out, the pain that had been racing down his back finally dissipating as it hit the lowest point where skin and feathers joined. He skidded to a stop, sliding a bit in the blood hat had pooled on the hardwood floor, as the demon stepped back to reveal a limp and bleeding Sam hanging by his wrists over a pile of dust and feathers that had once been attached to his back.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, lunging at the demon with a flap of his wings and tackling the monster to the ground. It squirmed under his grasp, gasping as surprisingly strong hands gripped its throat, as short nails dug into rapidly boiling flesh.

Dean gasped, his grip loosening, as a sharp pain filled his side. He glanced back and saw the machete sticking out of his side, trickling a mixture of his and Sam's blood onto the floor.

He turned back to the demon, which was smiling at its latest clever move, grabbed the collar of its shirt, stood, and flung the creature across the room. The broken body flew, connecting with a wall as the demon opened its stolen mouth and fled into the sky.

"Stay gone," Dean shouted after it, pulling the machete roughly from his side and dropping it on the floor. He stumbled over to Sam, who was slumped down, half of his back peeled away, spine and ribs almost completely exposed.

Slowly, carefully, Dean reached up and broke the chains holding his brother to the wall. Sam fell limp into his brother's arms and Dean lowered him to the floor, turning him over gently.

"Sammy," he whispered, letting his hands hover over the exposed bone of his brother's back, "I'm sorry." He wasn't even sure the younger man was still alive, if he could be saved. But he wasn't about to let his brother die looking like that, missing half the skin from his back, his clothing covered in tacky blood.

Dean breathed a small sigh of relief as his hands began to glow, grimacing each time a drop of his own blood fell onto his brother's exposed back. He glanced back at the wall where he'd been nailed, at the blood that had seeped into the wood, at the little strings of flesh hanging from the nails.

The light from his hands died out and he looked back at Sam. Dean gulped and rolled his brother over, checking the younger man for a pulse. It was faint, but there.

"All right, buddy," Dean muttered, scooping his baby brother up into his arms and standing, "time to head out before that thing decides to come back." He turned to the door, hoping that the orange-eyed freak didn't have any friends lying in wait for them. Before finally heading out of the hell-hole, though, Dean ran back to the table and grabbed his tooth, shoving it in his pocket, just in case.


	9. Chapter 9

Time for another update. Don't look too hard for one tomorrow, tho, I have a feeling I'm going to be sleeping all day!

* * *

It was stronger. Dean hadn't been sure Sam would make it through the long flight from the cabin (which had been empty when he'd left it) in Montana to Rosie's house in Wisconsin. It was starting to cool down outside and the wind had been blowing. But as the angel laid his brother out on the bed in Rosie's room, he could feel a pulse, hear the soft whistling of breath.

He took a step back, grabbing a blanket that had been laying on a near-by chair and tossing it lightly over his bother, tucking the taller man in. He was so worried about Sam that he never heard the door open behind him, never heard the footsteps. He didn't know that he and Sam weren't really alone until it was too late.

o0o0o0o

She'd just finished tucking Sophie in, after calling the girl's parents and letting them know where she was, of course (ok, so she'd hadn't told them _exactly_ where the little girl was. She'd lied and said she was the mother of one of Sophie's friends and the girls had planned a sleep-over), when she heard it.

It was a soft thump coming from the upstairs bedroom, probably just the house settling. Under any other circumstances, she'd wouldn't have paid it any notice.

But that was the room with the broken window, and she wasn't exactly sure how long the angel's blessing would last.

Checking on Sophie one last time, Rosie grabbed a poker from its place beside the fire and went to investigate. She climbed the stairs slowly, careful to be as quiet as she could.

She reached the landing and saw a shadow walking around in the gloom. She approached the door, which was only open a crack, and slowly pushed it open. Thinking fast, she ran at the intruder and stuck the point of her weapon squarely between his shoulder blades, taking him down instantly.

As soon as she heard the muffled thump of the body hitting the ground, Rosie ran to the wall and flipped on the lights. She gasped as she finally got a good look at the intruder.

He lay bloody on the floor, the iron poker sticking straight up between those flawlessly white wings. He gasped, rising to his knees and reaching around behind him to grip the metal stick. Without so much as a grunt, he pulled the make-shift weapon from his back.

"Lady," he moaned, turning to face Rosie, whose breath hitched as she laid eyes on him, "would you stop killing me already?"

"What happened?" she asked, eyes flitting from the blood-drenched man on the floor in front of her to the one laying on the bed.

"We got kidnapped," Dean said, rising to his feet as bones ground together in his back and blood began to run from the new wound.

"You look terrible," she whispered, taking a tentative step towards him, trying to focus on the hole in his shoulder instead of the one where his right eye used to be.

"That's what happens when you're tortured," he muttered, "do me a favor and get me a couple more blankets or something. He needs to warm up."

"What happened to him?"

Dean's eyes slid shut. "It tried to kill him," he said softly, "it turned him mortal and it tried to kill him. He lost his wings."

"I'm so sorry. Do you need-?"

"Just some blankets, and maybe some coffee. Thanks."

The old woman nodded, eyes jumping over to Sam's sleeping form before she left the room.

Dean sighed, scrubbing a blood-crusted hand over his equally blood-crusted face, and dropped the poker to the floor. He staggered toward the mirror that hung on the wall across from the bed, not really sure if he wanted to see what had become of him since that morning.

He stared at his reflection, at the hollow space where a bright hazel eye once sat, at a bloody hole in his shirt, a clean cut in his side, one ragged hole in each wrist. He grinned, revealing a large hole in the front of his mouth.

Dean dug in his pocket and pulled out his tooth, examining it a little before finally deciding to try pushing it back in. There was more blood, a sick squelching sound, a sharp pain, and, once again, a perfectly dazzling smile.

"What do you know," Dean sighed, testing out his tooth, which seemed to have fit right back into the hole perfectly, "it really _is_ beautiful when the boy smiles."

He turned to look back at Sam, wondering exactly how much blood the younger man had lost and how that would affect him now that he could die. "One problem at a time, dude," he muttered to himself, placing a hand over the gaping hole that had once been his eye and hoping that it could regenerate, "one problem at a time."

o0o0o0o

"You want me to take her home?" Dean asked, leaning casually against the doorway to the kitchen after fixing up his perfect body and attempting to get some of the blood off his shirt.

Rosie started and turned, smiling wide and slipping something from a drawer into the sleeve of her nightgown. "What's that?"

"Sophie," the angel clarified, nodding back toward the sofa, "I can fly her home if you want."

"That would be wonderful," the psychic grinned, "I'm sure her parents are worried sick. Yes, you fly her home and I'll take care of Sammy while you're gone."

"All right," Dean nodded, heading into the living room to get the girl, "sounds great. Thanks."

"Oh, no," Rosie whispered as the angel disappeared up the stairs with the sleeping child, "thank _you_." She pulled a paring knife from its hiding place in her sleeve, her face splitting into a wide grin as she heard the soft flapping of wings leaving the house.

o0o0o0o

Glancing quickly over his shoulders to make sure no one had followed him, Dean set the girl down on her front stoop and struggled back into his jacket. He scooped her back up, adjusting her weight, and knocked softly on the front door of what he assumed was her house. Of course, it probably was. That little voice in the back of his mind hadn't missed an address yet.

"Hello?" a very tired-looking man asked, yawning as he pulled open the door and gazed onto the dimly-lit porch.

"Yeah, hi, listen," the angel began, shifting the girl's weight in his arms again, "I know it's late and all, but-"

"Sophie? I thought she was spending the night."

"Oh?" Dean gasped, thankful that, for once, someone else had thought enough to establish a cover, "well, she was, but she got homesick. You know how kids are. She fell back asleep on the way over."

The man, apparently Sophie's father, smiled. "Here," he said, holding out his arms to take the girl, "I'll put her to bed."

The hunter smiled, handing over his load and casually brushing the other man's hand, watching for smoke. Once he was sure the girl's father was completely human, he waved and let the door close. Immediately, his hands were on the intricate wooden paneling, glowing brightly in the night and insuring that nothing else would attempt to harm the poor child.

He nodded and grinned to himself, his work done for the moment, and headed out to the sidewalk, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being watched as he wormed out of his jacket. He was almost to the end of the driveway when his wrist began to bleed.


	10. Chapter 10

Haha, I woke up today (I was out till 5 am and wasn't sure I could), so I'm back with another chapter!

* * *

Rosie nudged the door to her bedroom open and peeked inside. Sam was still there, sleeping peacefully under the quilt his brother had covered him in. "Perfect," she breathed, fingers tightening around the handle of her weapon.

She approached the bed quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping psychic, and pulled away the quilt. She took his hand in hers, palm up, and cut a clean line down his wrist, sinking the blade of the knife in as far as she could.

Sam jumped awake, a small yelp escaping his lips, and, pulling his hand back, stumbled from the bed. "What the hell?" he shouted, backing away from the other psychic and stumbling toward the broken window.

Rosie's eyes suddenly sparked to life, filling the darkened room with a menacing orange glow. "Did you miss me?" she hissed, lunging at him, knife out.

Sam ducked down onto the floor, clutching his injured wrist in a weak attempt to stop the blood, as he felt a strong breeze blow against his exposed back. As soon as he was down and safely out of the way, something large flew through the window with a soft rustle of feathers, dripping a small trail of blood across the floor.

Rosie tried to jump to the side, out of the line of attack, but was too slow and wound up flat on the floor with her knife jutting from her chest.

"You all right?" Dean asked, stepping away from the elderly woman he'd just tackled.

"We need to leave," Sam gasped as he staggered to his feet, still clutching his bleeding wrist. The room spun around him as he stood, and he leaned carefully against the cool wall to keep from falling again.

"Not while you're bleeding to death," the elder man protested, crossing the room and grabbing his little brother's wrist.

Sam watched wearily as his skin healed. "What happened?"

"She attacked you. Duh."

"No, not to me. To you. Your wrist is bleeding." As his mind stopped reeling from the shock of the attack and the blood loss, Sammy was surprised to notice the source of the blood that had cut a thin red trail across the carpet from the window.

"Oh," Dean muttered, slapping a hand over his own wounded wrist and shaking his head, "that. Yeah, nothing like amping up the empathy last minute, huh? So, what's the story on our psycho psychic? She just wig out all of a sudden, or what?"

"She's possessed. Orange-eyes."

"That's impossible. I blessed the house."

Sam shrugged, suddenly noticing that his back and shoulders felt lighter than they had in nearly two months. "Yellow-eyes was immune to holy water. Anything's possible."

"Well, we gotta get out of here before it wakes up. Come on," Dean reached out and grabbed his brother's hand, pulling him around to face the window.

"Dean."

"We'll talk later."

"What happened in that cabin?"

"No time."

Sam pulled his hand away. "Make time."

"The stupid son of a bitch clipped your wings, all right? Now come on, we don't have all day." He grabbed Sammy's hand again without waiting for any kind of answer and headed out the window. He didn't know where he was going, wasn't sure any place was safe if the demon could get past his defenses, but knew that he had to keep his brother safe and alive. That, more than anything, was what mattered.

o0o0o0o0o

The warm light radiating from Harvelle's Roadhouse shone through the night like a beacon in eternal darkness, beckoning the brothers with its warm glow.

"You really think Jo can help us out?" Sam asked, shivering as he stood shirtless in the field across from the building where Dean had landed.

"If nothing else, she can give us a place to stay," the angel reasoned, "a couple of beds. Besides, what kind of demon walks into a bar full of hunters?"

"A suicidal one?" Sam guessed, following his brother through the choking darkness of Nebraska midnight.

"Sounds about right," Dean grinned, pushing open the door to the roadhouse and stepping into the aging building. "Yo, Jo," he called, "it's your two favorite people!"

"What the hell do you want?" an angry-looking woman in her mid-seventies asked as she stepped out from behind the bar, busily rubbing a dry rag around inside a dirty glass.

"Your pleasant company, of course," Dean replied, shooting a wink at the woman.

Anger quickly gave way to a large smile as Jo Harvelle set down the glass she was cleaning and wrapped her arms around the angel. "Man, it's been ages since I've seen you two," she gushed, "'bout time you came back. So, what brings you to the middle of nowhere?"

"A demon," Sam answered, stepping forward as Jo finally took her hands off his brother's butt (a very sneaky move on her part, by the way, because Dean certainly hadn't seen it coming).

The old woman cocked her head to the side, taking a step away from Dean and squinting at Sam. "Something's different," she muttered, "you lost your wings?"

"Got them cut off, actually."

"Don't worry," Dean said, "we're suing the ugly McDreamy clone for malpractice."

"This isn't funny, Dean," Jo hissed, grabbing Sammy's arm and leading him to a stool at the bar. "You're freezing, Sam, let me get you a blanket and something to drink. Now, tell me about this demon."

Sam shrugged as Jo disappeared into a back room and Dean took a seat beside him. "He's the yellow-eyed demon's brother, and he's going after psychics. He seems to think that the first demon set up for a war, and that without something to turn the psychics dark side, they'll all end up hunting. Really, he's just looking out for all demon-kind."

The owner of the roadhouse reappeared, thick blanket and bottle of whisky in hand. "Sounds like you boys have got a problem. What do you need me for?"

"We need a safe place to stay," Dean explained, "we thought we had one, but the damned thing got past every roadblock we put up for it, possessed the lady we were staying with, and tried to kill Sam. We figured you might be able to help."

"You figured right," Jo nodded, "there's a room out back for you as long as you need it. Feel free to stay."

"You're sure it's ok?" Sam asked, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

"Positive. Besides, what kind of demon's stupid enough walk into a bar full of hunters?"

o0o0o0o0o

Dean sighed, backing out of the small room as quietly as possible, trying not to wake his sleeping brother. He walked down the hall, barely even noticing the old photos of hunters and members of the 'roadhouse crew' that had passed through that same spot. He walked by Ash's old room, which hadn't been touched since the older man's death nearly twenty years before.

"Hey, Jo," he muttered, walking out into the bar and sliding onto a stool, "you're up early."

"So are you," she pointed out, "any reason?"

"Couldn't sleep. You?"

A shadow of a smile crossed her face. "Worried, I guess. This new demon-"

"Don't worry. We'll get it."

"Don't take this the wrong way," she said, coming out from behind the bar to sit next to him, "but I'm not worried about you and Sam. You can take care of yourselves, immortal or not. I'm worried about Charlie."

"Charlie?"

Jo nodded. "He's the son of a friend of mine. A hunter. Charlie can do things, Dean, and his dad knows. They use it to their advantage when they're working, but now… if they don't know…"

"You think the demon's gonna target them."

"I just want to know that they're safe, but I can't leave the roadhouse. Thanks to your new friend, there's been a spike in the number of possessions, and without Bobby around to track the things, hunters have been flocking here."

"Let me guess," the angel grinned, "you want me to go check on them while you man the fort?"

"Actually, I was going to suggest that you and Sam run things while I go talk to Charlie and his dad, but I like your idea better. They live in a cabin about two miles north of here. It's real secluded, nobody around for miles. You can't miss it."

Dean shook his head, slid off the stool, and headed for the door. "Just do me one favor."

"What's that?"

"Make sure Sam doesn't leave the roadhouse. Keep him safe, all right?"

Jo nodded, "no problem. Nothing's going to get him as long as I'm around."

"That's my girl," Dean grinned, spreading his wings as soon as the door had closed behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

Time for another update. Now we get to find out more about Jo's friend and just what happens when you... well, you'll find out...

* * *

Pain, panic, fear, and betrayal flooded through his body as he touched down on the front porch of the modest cabin, so it really wasn't any surprise that Dean didn't bother to knock. The front door of the little house blew inward with a spray of splinters as the angel kicked out at it. "Knock knock!"

Muffled sounds came from behind a closed door to the hunter's left as he stalked into the house. He slunk toward it, listening hard for more muttering, and pushed it open a crack.

An old wooden chair with a bundle of rags carelessly tossed on top of it sat in the middle of the room. Slowly, Dean pushed the door open a little farther and slid through the small opening and into the room.

Upon closer inspection, the hunter found that the limp pile of tattered rags hadn't been tossed onto the chair by someone with too much on their hands to worry about cleaning up. No, it had been _tied_. The bound man couldn't have been older than 25, and was covered from head to toe with bruises and blood.

"Hey," Dean whispered, glancing around the room before venturing to its center, "hey, Charlie."

The man's head slowly rose from his chest. His face looked even worse than the rest of him. Both eyes were black and swollen almost completely shut, his lip was split, his nose was broken, and it looked like someone (or some_thing_) had beaten him over the head with a blunt object.

Dazed eyes scanned the room before coming to rest on the hunter. "You…" Charlie began weakly.

"Shh," Dean warned, dropping to his knees and starting to untie the battered psychic.

"You need to leave," Charlie muttered, his head lolling back until he stared up at the ceiling with unblinking eyes, "it's still here…in my dad… it's a trap."

"I'm not just gonna leave you here," the angel whispered as he finished with the ropes that bound the psychic to the old chair, "come on, I'll take you someplace safe."

"There's no place that father can't reach," an eerily flat voice said as the door creaked slowly shut. Dean stood up and whirled around, flaring his wings to hide Charlie from the intruder's sight.

The newcomer just smiled, wiping bloody hands on an already bloody shirt. Cold black eyes darted up and down the psychic's savior, assessing the latest threat to its mission. Apparently, the rather strapping young man with wings didn't seem to be too much of a problem.

The possessed man, most likely Charlie's dad (because, really, how many demons does it take to tie up and torture a psychic kid?), reached behind him and locked the door in one fluid movement, trapping them all in the room. "Nowhere to run," he hissed, sauntering slowly up to his captives, "nowhere to hide."

"Guess I'll just have to fight then," Dean smirked, throwing a quick glance back at Charlie, who seemed to have passed out again.

"I guess you will," the demon replied, reaching out with his foot and kicking a long metal pole up into his hands. The shimmering surface of the object had been caked in blood, gore, and what appeared to be a tuft of blond hair. "Come and get it, bird boy!"

The angel rolled his eyes. "I'm starting to get kinda tired of all the wings jokes. Couldn't you guys-"

The demon swung out with his weapon, cutting off Dean's incredibly helpful suggestion as the pole connected with the hunter's head. An inhuman shriek of triumph filled the room as the angel fell.

"Wow," the possessed man cooed, dropping the pole and stooping down to slide his fingers through the blood and chunks of grey matter that had begun to pool on the hardwood floor, "looks like I don't know my own strength."

"Guess not," Dean muttered, kicking the demon's feet out from under him and standing shakily up, "good thing I know mine."

Black eyes widened as Charlie's father peered up at the man that had just bested him and blood dripped from the hunter's face onto the floor with a hollow plopping sound that effectively filled the room. "Impossible."

Dean bent down and grabbed the collar of the man's shirt, hoisting the demon to his stolen feet before shoving him into a wall. "Never underestimate the impossible."

The demon hissed, attempting to recoil from the angel's grasp as the smell of melting flesh wafted through the small room. From behind him, Dean could hear Charlie muttering weakly, pleading for his father's life. There was a faint sound of metal scraping wood as the discarded pole skittered across the floor.

"Don't do it, Charlie," Dean cautioned as the demon squirmed against the wall, still fighting to get away.

"That's right, son," the creature mocked, "let the grown-ups talk."

"You're not," Charlie whispered weakly as the pole stopped its journey, "my father."

"If I look like your pop and quack like your pop," the demon began, a sly smirk worming its way across a stolen face even as the sickening stench of burning flesh began to overpower everyone present. Dean slammed a hand over the man's mouth, frowning at the uncomfortable feeling of the skin melting beneath his palm.

The demon began to buck and jerk, struggling harder than ever to get away from his opponent. The angel backed off, pulling his hand away and loosening his grip on the writhing vessel.

The creature opened his host's mouth wide and escaped into the atmosphere, screaming in pain as he did so. Charlie's father slumped into Dean's arms, moaning through what was left of his mouth.

The angel lowered himself and the now-unconscious man slowly to the floor. He placed a hand over the other hunter's mouth, glancing back at Charlie as he fixed the remnants of his handiwork. "You all right, kid."

"Maybe," Charlie sighed, groaning as he slid out of the chair and crawled across the floor to where Dean and his father sat, "is he gonna be ok?"

"He'll be fine," the angel assured, "you're the one I'm worried about."

"There's something out there that wants me dead," the younger man muttered, stretching out onto the bloodstained floor, "yeah, I figured. Jo send you?"

Dean nodded, lighting tapping Charlie's father on the cheek, trying to wake him up. "Yep. She was starting to get nervous. Looks like she was right."

Charlie nodded weakly. "Yeah. She's really intuitive like that. It's kinda freaky, really, the way she gets these vibes and they turn out to be right. Almost like she's…" the psychic trailed off, his half-closed eyes snapping suddenly open as realization hit him.

"Almost like she's like you?" Dean finished. The younger hunter didn't speak, just shut his eyes and nodded again. "You don't actually think-?"

"Go," a strong voice suddenly ordered as the once-possessed man sat up, "I'll cover the house and tend to Charlie. Find Jo."

The angel gained his feet quickly, running out of the room and leaving the two hunters to lick their own wounds and seal up the house against another demonic invasion.

o0o0o0o

The front door to Harvelle's Roadhouse burst open as Dean ran in, not really caring if anyone besides Jo and Sam was present to see him without his jacket on. He slid into the bar, nearly overbalancing and toppling into the slick red mess that coated the floor.

Jo Harvelle lay in a heap at his feet, her throat slit, brown eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling as her body cooled.

"Sam!"

No reply, nothing but the wind whistling by outside the building. In the distance, a lone bird chirped out a sad little song.

"All right," Dean muttered, stooping down into the bloody mess and closing his old friend's eyes, "it wants a war, I'll give it a freakin' war." He stood up, taking one last look around the abandoned roadhouse. "Ready or not," the angel hissed, murder in his eyes as he exited the familiar building, "here I come."


	12. Chapter 12

Wow. Once more, I'd like to thank everyone who's taken the time to review this story. I've said it before and I'll say it again, without instant gratification, I really have no reason to write :)

* * *

It paced the room, flexing arthritic wrists and grumbling about its current host, all while the real man of the hour sat in a corner and watched, eyes chasing the old woman's progress in the room like a caged animal waiting to pounce.

"If you want it so bad," Sam hissed, "why don't you just do it?"

The demon stopped its pacing and smiled. "We're short a guest, Sammy-boy. Can't do this without your dear brother."

"What do you want him for? I thought-"

"If I kill you," the creature interrupted, taking a few short steps toward its chained captive, "Dean will never forgive me. He'll hunt me down and make it his mission in life to exterminate me and all my kind. I just can't let that happen."

"You can't kill him."

"We thought the same thing about you just yesterday, though, didn't we?"

Sam hung his head, fidgeting in the chains that bound him close to the wall and adjusting his legs as he knelt in the dusty back corner of the room. "Why'd you kill Jo?"

The demon smirked. "You mean she never told you?"

"Told me what?"

"Bill Harvelle's first wife was named Susan. Together, they had little Joanne, and six months after her birth, Sue burned on the ceiling. About a year later, Billy met Ellen, and the rest is history. I must say they did an awesome job covering that up. I mean, even Jo didn't realize that Ellen wasn't her biological mother."

"She was psychic," Sam reasoned, "so you killed two birds with one stone and-"

"Three birds, actually. See, I got you, wasted her, and any minute now your brother's going to show up and meet the same fate. Funny how this long, gory plotline weaves itself out, isn't it?"

"Stephen King couldn't have done it better," Sammy commented, twisting his wrists in the cuffs and biting back a scream as the cool metal dug deeper into his flesh and warm blood trickled down into his hands.

"I hope Dean gets here soon," the demon commented, taking a seat in the shadows in the opposite corner of the room, "I might just grow impatient with all this waiting. Wouldn't want him to find a bloody pulp now, would we?"

o0o0o0o

He could feel it. Cold, oppression, fear, death. It emanated from the building in waves, along with the subtle panic and practiced determination he knew to be Sam's. He was definitely in the right place.

The right place, apparently, was an old run-down shack of a cabin in rural Missouri. Rotted boards, dusty windows, and undoubtedly a large pool of dried blood near one of the walls where, over fifty years before, a hunter had nearly fallen at the hands of his own father.

Yeah, it was _that_ run-down cabin.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Dean slowly approached the rickety building. He wiped a thick coat of dust from one of the windows and peered inside. Yep, there was that blood. Shadows covered most of the small room, but in the back corner the angel could make out the form of a human, slumped over, chains shimmering out of the darkness.

He slipped around the side of the shack, carefully controlling his breathing and watching where he stepped. He had no idea how good this new threat's hearing was, and he wasn't going to take any chances.

The hunter approached the door and took a step back. At least he had the element of surprise on his side. He kicked out at the rotting slab of wood and felt it give easily under the force. He rushed into the room, searching for the demon, but found only Sam.

"You all right?" Dean questioned, glancing around once more before running to his sibling's aid.

"It's a trap, man, it's hiding. You've gotta get out."

"Not without you, Psychic Boy," he grabbed the chains that bound his brother's wrists and ankles and snapped them. "Come on."

The siblings turned to the door only to find it closed, the demon blocking their escape. "Boo," it hissed, sending both Winchesters sailing into the opposite wall.

Orange eyes sparked with manic light as the creature approached his prisoners. "I was wondering when you'd show up," it said in Rosie's voice, smiling with Rosie's mouth, and looking up at Dean with Rosie's failing eyes.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the angel sneered as the wheels in his head turned and he searched the room for any means of escape.

The demon's eyes shone brightly in the darkness of the room, two glowing coals that seemed to burn straight through the older man and see what was going on behind his hazel eyes. "Don't even try it boy," it warned, "there's no way out for either of you."

The brothers' captor stalked away from Dean, smiling the whole time. It held out one aged hand and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt, pulling the psychic from his place on the wall and towards the room's nearest dirty window.

"Don't you dare," Dean threatened through clenched teeth.

The demon turned, tightening his grip on Sam's shirt. "This won't take long," its stolen, sweet voice promised, "why don't you just hang out until I'm done, huh? Then maybe the two of us can have a little fun of our own."

Dean began to struggle against the invisible bonds holding him to the rotting wall as the creature turned to the window and jumped through in a spray of glass, dragging a reluctant Sam along behind.

He continued to fight against his unseen opponent even as the sound of the demon's footsteps and Sam's struggles faded into the forest that surrounded the small wooden hut. Finally, he relaxed, letting himself hang, gathering his strength for one final attempt.

Dean didn't have to wait long for his release, though. Almost as soon as he had let his body fall limp, whatever hold the demon had on him disappeared completely, dropping the angel unceremoniously to the blood-stained floor.

Groaning, the man gained his feet, brushing off his pants legs and cursing under his breath. He looked out the window and into the dark forest, at the slowly rocking shadows of the trees, at the old dirt track that ran through the thick brush. It didn't take long for Dean to cross to that window with the intent to jump out of the leaning cabin and run after his brother. Two sets of strong hands on his shoulders stopped him, though, as the smell of quickly burning flesh wafted through the room.

"Oh, shit," Dean muttered as he was pulled back into the room to face the demon's two lackeys.

o0o0o0o

Sam was thrown to the dusty ground in a small circular clearing in the forest. He turned to look up into the face of the sweet old woman that had, just the day before, offered to help the brothers in their crusade against the newest threat to humanity. Some help she'd turned out to be.

"What?" the demon asked, grinning maniacally in the shifting pools of light filtering down through the shadows cast by the waving tree branches, "you're not going to try and run? Not going to call for help? Not even one of those patented Sammy Winchester looks of determination?"

"Not much in the mood," Sam muttered, looking past Rosie and towards the cabin. The demon followed his gaze.

"Don't hold your breath," it advised, "I've already taken care of your brother. He's being beaten within an inch of his immortal life even as we speak."

The young hunter's eyes widened as bit as the demon grinned, stepping closer through the short shrubbery of the clearing. Sam tried to react, tried to jump up and run, or at least stand to fight, but found himself stuck. The creature's malicious grin widened as it neared its paralyzed prey, drawing a loaded gun from the back pocket of Rosie's jeans.

o0o0o0o

Dean connected with the wall, his head banging against the rotted wood and creating a large hole. He pulled himself from the wall and faced his attackers, two burly guys with pitch black eyes. "Hey boys," he smiled, "your boss finally realize he'd need reinforcements?"

The heavier of the two demons snarled, baring his teeth in a way that reminded Dean of the dog in _Cujo_, before charging straight at the angel. Dean dodged the hefty body, ducking to one side and letting the bigger man's momentum carry him through the wall and into the next room.

The second demon came up a little faster, running into his opponent and sending him crashing through the newly created hole in the wall and into the next room. Dean righted himself mid-fall, though, and managed to land on his feet with a flap of his wings. The demon that had tackled him hadn't been expecting the move and let go, falling onto his counterpart.

"You boys ready to give up?" the angel asked, looking over his fallen attackers. Both rose to their feet, albeit shakily, and growled. "Didn't think so," he sighed, pulling a rotten board loose from the wall.

"What you gonna do with that," the heavy demon asked, cocking his head to one side and grinning, "beat us to death?"

"As a matter of fact," Dean smiled, eyes reflecting the light cast by the now-glowing board, "I am."

It didn't take him long to finish up in the cabin and move to the forest.


	13. Chapter 13

Hey, thanks again for the reviews. Now, someone recently reviewed saying that they're glad I update everyday (Sorry that I'm not good with names and am too lazy to click back... you know who you are :)). I've got to say that my pet peeve is people who take a long time to update. I'm actually still waiting for chapters of stories that were alst updated 6 or 7 months ago (I have no idea what even happened in those stories anymore). So, yeah... I update everyday. Thanks for noticing!

* * *

It had been a minute since the lone shot had resonated throughout the darkening forest, echoing off the trees and sending startled birds into the sky. The sound had alerted Dean to the demon's whereabouts, and he was getting closer. He could feel it.

It had been nearly a minute since searing pain had ripped quickly through his stomach and the new, clean hole had started to bleed. It only gave the hunter more incentive to run, only meant that Sam wasn't dead, that the demon hadn't yet gotten around to firing the kill-shot.

Dean ran, his shirt tacky, fingers tightening around the blessed board hard enough to put smooth grooves into the blood-darkened wood. He only slowed to test his wings, to see how far he could spread them before snow-white feathers brushed gnarled bark. There wasn't much give, certainly not enough room to fly between trunks, and too much vegetation to see anything clearly from the open sky.

So he ran, wings folded as tightly to his back as he could manage, head down in an attempt to streamline as bushes and bark rushed past.

He stumbled, almost fell, his world spinning as his stomach continued to bleed, leaving a crimson trail as he wound his way through thick brush. Without realizing what he was doing, Dean gently laid a hand over the wound, slowing his pace as the healing process began and cackling laughter filtered through the dense trees.

o0o0o0o

"I'm going to shoot you," the demon explained calmly, eyes glittering as its prey, already wounded, scooted back across the forest floor, "right in the heart. It won't be an immediate death. See, your heart will keep pumping, spilling untold amounts of blood into your chest cavity. Basically, it will turn against you."

Sam felt rough bark catch on the back of his shirt and knew it was over. There was nowhere to run, unless he could duck around behind the tree. Honestly, though, with the demon watching him that didn't seem like a possibility. The bullet that was undoubtedly floating around inside him didn't help much, either. Blood from the hole in his stomach had already drenched the lower half of the shirt he'd gotten from Harvelle's the night before, and had started seeping through his fingers as he clutched at the wound.

He couldn't escape. He didn't have the strength. It had been a long life, a weird beginning to his afterlife, and Sam was tired. He would never admit it to Dean, because Dean still needed him, but he was tired. Tired, and bloody. Tired, bloody, and about to die again.

The demon raised the gun, aiming directly for Sam's heart. It smiled as it saw the look of acceptance in the psychic's eyes. Rosie's arthritic finger tightened on the trigger as Sam took his last breath and let his eyes slide slowly shut.

The kill-shot never came, though.

A loud crack resonated through the quiet woods as Rosie's body was thrown into a sturdy tree. Sam opened his eyes to find the source of the sound and saw his brother standing in the middle of the clearing, looking at the splintered tree and wielding a bloody board as if it were a baseball bat.

"You came," Sam marveled, relaxing against the tree trunk he'd scurried to in his attempt to escape the demon.

"Wasn't gonna leave you," Dean pointed out, readying his weapon as the possessed woman stumbled from the brush.

The creature ran at the angel, shoving the gun back into Rosie's pocket, preferring to shred at its latest victim with the elderly psychic's perfectly manicured nails. "I'm gonna tear those pretty little wings off with my bare hands if I have to," it shrieked, the threat spiraling up to the heavens as Dean swung the board into the old woman's stomach.

The demon went flying back with a muffled thump, flailing its stolen arms as a thick line of melting flesh was drawn across Rosie's stomach. It finally tripped over a jutting stone, falling flat on the aging psychic's backside, a look of anger on the once-kindly face as orange eyes glinted maliciously.

Growling low in Rosie's throat, the creature gained its feet and ran again, stumbling a bit and clutching the burnt spot on its stomach. Dean swung his make-shift bat again, this time bringing the board down on the possessed woman's head. There was another thump, this one louder than the first, and the demon sank to its knees, revealing a deep, growing gash on the psychic's head.

Dean saw his opportunity and reared back again, holding the blessed board over his head with the intent to strike the demon one last time, hopefully cutting its head clean open down the center. He never got the chance, though, as the demon raised Rosie's head, eyes still glinting, and escaped into the sky, melding into the shadows thrown by the tall trees.

The angel let his weapon fall to his side and looked at the broken, bloody, melting body of the psychic that had let him into her house and helped him save his little brother. She was still breathing.

Rosie looked up at him, her eyes no longer orange, her body once again under her own control, and smiled. "Go save your brother," she whispered, before slumping to one side and falling still.

Dean nodded, finally dropping the board that he'd clung to like a lifeline since the demon's two lackeys had attacked him, and trudged over to where his brother sat. "You ok?"

Sam blinked once, a small smile creeping across his face as he moved his hand away from the bloody hole in his stomach. "Been better," he managed weakly, hating the way that the whole world seemed to be fading in and out around him.

The older man sighed, dropping to his knees beside his brother and laying a soft, gentle hand on the young psychic's stomach. "You're lucky I showed up, you know that?"

"What took you?"

"Ran into a little snag," Dean explained, "I like to call them Thing One and Thing Two."

Sam nodded, automatically understanding as the world swam back into focus and the throbbing pain in his stomach subsided. "Lemme guess, you beat them with a board?"

"Dude, today I hit more home runs than Babe Ruth," the angel grinned, standing up and extending a hand to his little brother.

"Don't doubt it," the younger replied, glancing over at Rosie's limp form. Dean grabbed his shoulders and moved him away from the body, towards the opposite edge of the clearing, and back toward the cabin. He pushed his brother ahead, making sure to keep the single-file formation in order to block the body from Sam's view.

The gunshot rang through the forest so suddenly that neither Winchester had time to react. It was unexpected, sudden, loud, and barely even registered before the pain began.

Dean looked down at his chest, saw the hole going through his shirt, the blood seeping quickly through his clothing. He could feel more and more sticky liquid being expelled from his body with every weakening beat of his heart. His breath hitched as darkness clouded his vision and blood spilled from his body.

Somehow, he found the strength to look up at Sam, to see the rigid way in which the younger man stood, to recognize the crimson hole in the back of his shirt for what it was.

He had just enough time to register that his little brother had been shot in the heart before Sam crumpled to the ground, totally still, his face pale, eyes staring unblinkingly up at him, as though big brother had done him a major wrong by not being a better shield.

Dean dropped to his knees by his fallen sibling, fighting off the cool darkness of death as his own heart finally spotted beating. He barely heard the cackling laughter from behind him, didn't care that somehow the demon had won. The only thing that mattered was Sam.

Sam was dead.

* * *

Oohoh. And the evil author from Hell returns with another dazzling cliffie. Enjoy... evil laughter 


	14. Chapter 14

Well, guys, I was thinking of making you wait a couple more months for an update, but since you all asked so nicely...

The next chapter is the last, BTW. Afrer that one, keep your eyes peeled for a hopefully awesome Empath!Dean story...

* * *

"Never turn your back on a demon," the sweet voice hissed as soon as Dean's sobs had tapered off, "daddy should have taught you that." The angel barely turned his head. "Really, now, you should have seen this coming. I mean, why on earth would I give up so easily?"

"He never did anything to you," Dean muttered, finally gaining his feet and turning. His eyes were cold and dead, the blood on his shirt finally starting to dry. "He never did anything." His wings drooped, the tips, stained with his brother's blood, almost touching the soggy ground.

"He was born," the demon pointed out, taking a cautious step closer, grip tightening on the gun still held in aged hands.

The hunter sighed, taking a slow, unstable step away from his brother's body. "You want me, too, don't you?"

"Well, it wouldn't be very nice for me to let you spend eternity like this, now, would it? Besides, I have to make the world safe for others like me."

Dean nodded. His head dropped, hands in pockets. He accepted his fate, was more than willing to let it come now that he had no one to share forever with. The demon took it as its cue to finally rid the world of God's perfect soldier.

The gun fell to the ground behind Rosie's back as the demon's eyes glittered in the waning light. It took a step forward, eager to start destroying yet another good man, when the angel's head snapped up.

Fire burned behind the bright hazel eyes with an intensity the demon had never imagined. Spreading bloodied wings, Dean lunged, hands out and glowing with ethereal light, intent upon avenging his brother's death.

The demon had no time to react, and was knocked to the ground hard enough to break Rosie's neck. The old woman's mouth opened wide, but Dean cut off the demon's escape route by covering her face, plugging her nose with his thumb and index finger.

Flesh began to melt and the demon began to writhe, but the angel wouldn't let go. He was sitting on top of her, his whole body glowing with heavenly light, his hand held tight over her mouth and nose. Orange eyes sparked to life, shining brightly and daring him to keep trying, which he did, until no life was left in the shadowy creature born from the pits of Hell.

Slowly, the light in the eyes waned and extinguished, the thrashing stopped, the strength bled out of the creature. Dean sat on top of her long after the flesh had finished boiling under his fingertips, desperate to finally kill the creature that had mercilessly tortured and killed his brother.

When he was sure it was safe to do so, he slid off the dead psychic's body, hands and knees hitting the soft forest floor. He caught a glimpse of his handiwork out of the corner of his eye and promptly began to vomit.

There wasn't much left of Rosie Wilkinson's face beneath the eyes, not as far as skin and muscle went, anyway. White bone lay exposed beneath layers of flesh that now resembled the melted wax of a candle that had been left burning too long.

Gathering what was left of his strength, Dean crawled away from the body, stumbling a bit and cutting his hands on sharp rocks that had been hidden by the long, lush grass. As soon as what was left of Rosie was far from his line of sight, the angel gained his feet and staggered over to the spot where his brother lay.

Accusing green eyes stared vacantly up at him as Dean fell to his knees in the grass. He gently closed his brother's eyes and scooped the younger man into his arms, cradling him.

He placed a hand over the fatal wound, willing it to close, willing his brother to jump up, gasping for breath, to be all right. But nothing happened. There was no ethereal glow, no harsh intake of breath, just the setting sun and forest noises.

It was all over. What good was immortality if he had to spend the rest of eternity alone? There was no release, Angie had proven that.

Or had she?

Out of the haze of blind panic that the day's game of cat-and-mouse had brought, a single thought shone through, illuminating the answer to all of Dean's problems.

Angelina had been possessed. Those scars on her back, the ones he'd thought were the only remnants of her wings, hadn't been heavenly in origin. She'd probably made them herself, carving the poor girl's body in an attempt to gain his trust. That was why she hadn't been able to die. She'd been possessed.

It certainly made sense. After all, Meg had fallen out a seventh storey window and lived to exact revenge, hadn't she? Was it such a far cry to say that Angie had tried to hang herself and gotten back up to try it again, only with an audience?

Sitting on the grass in the darkening forest, Dean's mind began to work. Sam was all he had, the only one who would understand. And now he was gone. Gone like Rosie and Andy and Jo and Benji and countless other innocent psychics, any of which might have been willing to take him in.

A sharp howl rose in the distance, sending another flock of birds up into the sky and toward the setting sun. Dean struggled to his feet, still clutching Sam, unwilling to let go. He knew what he had to do. He even knew how to do it.

o0o0o0o

It was still there, lying forgotten behind the bedside table, right where it had been left in the hurry to find a decent hospital. The long hunting knife that Dean had placed in the bedroom his possessed father had once slept in was still there, albeit a bit rustier than he'd remembered.

He pulled the weapon out from its hiding place, attempting to scrape some of the rust off as the full moon rose outside the tiny cabin. In the bed next to the table, Sam lay still as death, the blood that coated the front of his shirt finally beginning to dry.

"Guess this is it, huh?" Dean asked, his eyes never leaving the knife. Silence was the only reply he got as he tried to maneuver the knife over his shoulders to touch the spot where skin and feather and muscle joined. He knew he wouldn't be able to cut all the way down his back, but figured that, if worse came to worse, he could always grab a handful of feathers and pull. If he could just keep his strength until after he was done, maybe he could see his family again.

Cool steel touched his back and the angel closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the inevitable pain.

"I wouldn't do that," an oddly familiar voice called out, startling Dean from his final thoughts.

The angel dropped the knife and turned, glaring the man who'd interrupted his last hoorah. "What the hell do you want?" he grumbled as the man standing in the doorframe walked fully into the room. Dean recognized him instantly. It was the blond man from the church in Colorado, the one that had given him his wings back, and then let him keep them. "Gabe."

"So you do remember me," the blond chirped, "I was afraid you wouldn't."

"What are you doing here?"

The intruder hung his head. "I'm sorry, Dean," he mumbled, "but I can't let you do that. You're too valuable to us. We can't lose you just yet."

"Oh, really," Dean snapped, "I'm too valuable, but Sam's not? Or did you just happen to turn your head to cough when the demon shot him?"

"It was your job to kill that demon," Gabe explained, "and you just couldn't get it done with Sam around. I'm sorry."

"If you were sorry, you'd bring him back."

"You don't really want that," the blond reasoned, "he's happy now. He's with his mother and father and girlfriend."

"My father's in Hell," Dean pointed out, stooping to pick up the knife.

"We saved him. He had to die so you could live. If you hadn't survived that wreck, the yellow-eyed demon and his brother never would have been destroyed. What your father did was not only noble, it was vital."

"Well, I guess I should gear up for a full-on reunion, then, shouldn't I?" Dean asked, again putting the blade to his back.

"Do you know what happens to people who kill themselves, Dean?"

The angel shrugged. "They die?"

"Do you know where they go?"

Dean dropped the knife to his side again. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"You have two choices. Either spend the rest of forever being tortured, or spend it saving lives."

"Do I have to do it alone?"

"It would be best. Like I said, Sam's happy now. He doesn't want to come back, doesn't want to face an eternity of hunting and pain and torture. He wants you to let him rest in peace."

Sighing, Dean let the knife fall from his fingers and hit the floor. "It's really not a choice, is it?"

Gabe stepped forward, placing a warm, comforting hand on the younger angel's shoulder. "It's for the best," he said softly, his voice steady and calm, "now, there's a hellmouth that's just been opened in Wisconsin, a big one that's been releasing a bunch of nasties for the past week. If you could just take care of that…"

Dean pulled away from the other man's grasp and headed out of the room, only stopping at the doorframe. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no."

"I don't think you understand-"

"And I don't think _you_ understand. You took everything from me, even death. Now I'm stuck here alone and you don't even give a shit. I'm done."

"But, Dean-"

"It's over, Gabe. Get someone else to do your dirty work."

"We gave you what you wanted. You owe us"

Dean spun around, whipping up dust around his feet and snarling at the other angel. "I wanted a family," he growled, "and you took that away. I don't owe you anything." He spun back around and headed out of the cabin, into the dreary darkness of Missouri dusk.

His shadow spread out before him as white light emanated from the cabin and, he assumed, Gabe went back to paradise.

It wasn't fair. Sure, he'd asked to keep the damn wings, but he'd done that without thinking. What good was a little freedom if he lost everyone he loved? What good was immortality if there was no one to share it with? What good was the ability to heal with a touch if he couldn't save his brother? What good was-

The thought was cut off as something large, fast, and extremely solid connected with the angel. He had just enough time to remember that there was a road near the cabin before he was flipped over the roof of the car and thrown into the roadside ditch.

Dean lay in the dirt, arms and legs twisted, blood soaking into the ground, as the screech of tires filled the air. That noise was promptly replaced by a harried scream, followed by the squealing of tires as the driver peeled out and away from the crash site.

Darkness flooded his vision, bringing a release from the sharp, throbbing pain that consumed him, but, for the second time that day, Dean fought it off. A little pain was good. It made him feel alive. It made him forget. Physical pain was easily dealt with, emotional hurt, not so much.

Yeah, he could deal with it.

That was when the light bulb went off in his mind. In the darkened ditch, his arms and legs and ribs and spine broken, blood pouring from numerous cuts and scrapes and dents, Dean smiled.


	15. Chapter 15

Sigh The final chapter. The end of my Angel's Wings series.

As always, thanks for bothering to read and review. It really does mean the world to me :)

And now, Faithful Readers, here we go. The end of an era. I'm gonna miss it.

* * *

The door to the motel room creaked open and Dean slid in, glancing briefly at the two queen beds. He tossed the duffel bag down on the bed closest to the door, _his _bed since he couldn't remember when, and turned on the lights.

He began rooting through the bag, looking for the perfect weapon, the one thing that could bring him a little relief. It had been less than a day since his brother's death, less than a day since the car accident, less than a day since he had remembered.

Sam had had a vision. Sure, it had started out with Dean burying the Colt, an action that would never happen now, but it would end the same. Dean would make sure of that.

He pulled out the gun, inspected it, watched as dim light glinted off the metal surface. Smiling, he put the barrel to his temple and clicked the safety off. He let his eyes slide shut, and pulled the trigger.

There was a flash of light and a splash as blood and brain matter hit the wall. The gun fell from Dean's fingers and landed on the blood-spattered carpet as the hunter dropped forward onto his bed.

The room was eerily quiet, no sound penetrated the walls from outside, and even the blood dripping from the bed was muted by the thick carpeting. Throughout the silence, though, one noise could be heard: the squealing of the old motel room door as it opened. There was a sigh, soft footfalls, and then the creak of boxsprings as someone sat down on the room's other bed.

"Dean," a sad voice whispered as more blood pooled in the carpet.

o0o0o0o

The silence of the room was broken by a sharp intake of breath, followed by a coughing fit. Dean pushed himself up off the bed and turned to look into the mirror that hung haphazardly on the wall across from him. He smirked.

It looked like half of his head was missing, and blood trickled down the side of his face in warm rivulets. Jagged bone and bloody brain could be seen clearly, giving away the severity of injuries that would have been enough to kill a mortal man.

"Nice," a familiar voice scoffed, "but I preferred the heart-thing myself. Classy, yet disturbing."

Dean's breath hitched in his throat as he turned to the other bed, the bed that had usually been reserved for Sam, the bed that he hadn't been paying attention to because he'd figured it would be empty. After all, Sam was dead.

"What? Not gonna tote out the welcome wagon for me?"

The angel raised a hand to the demolished side of his head, embarrassed and ashamed to let his little brother see him like that. "You…?"

Sammy shrugged, ashen grey wings rising and falling as he did so. "Like a cockroach."

Dean let his hand slide away from his now-whole skull, smearing the lines of blood that had tracked down his face. "But, he said you were happy."

"Let me tell you something about Heaven," Sam smiled, moving over to sit beside his big brother, "it's a lot like immortality. It seems like a cool concept, unless there's no one to share it with."

"Mom, and dad, and Jess-"

"Yeah," the younger man admitted, "that was nice. But you… you're a real fan of pain, aren't you? You really are trying to see how far this whole immortality thing can take you, huh?"

Dean shook his head. "You should have stayed if you were happy. You shouldn't have come back for me."

"Are you kidding? I wasn't gonna spend eternity watching you torture yourself because we weren't paying attention to the old dead lady in the forest."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. It's that stupid messenger."

"Gabe?"

Sam nodded. "He was lying. You deserve better than what he proposed, and you could have gotten it. There are just some people, some _things_, that believe a war is coming. Yellow-eyes, orange-eyes, Gabe. They were prepping for something that might never actually come. He was using you, Dean. You're just lucky Someone's watching out for you."

"But, you didn't have to-"

"I _wanted _to," Sam interrupted, "there's still work to do. Those two demons weren't the only ones working on starting a universal war. Both sides have zealots."

Dean looked at him. "You gave up Heaven to come track down a bunch of war mongers?"

"No," the younger man clarified, standing up and extending a hand to the angel, "I gave up Heaven to come track down a bunch of war mongers with my big brother. There's a difference. I'm not gonna do it alone."

Dean smiled and grabbed Sam's hand. "Well, all right. If you're sure."

"I'm positive," Sammy grinned.

"'Cause, you know, eternity's a long time to be stuck with me."

"Don't make me change my mind."

The older man nodded and started to clean up, picking up the gun and shoving it back into the duffle. "Hey, Dean," Sam began slowly.

"Yeah?"

"You, uh, might want to wash my blood off your wings."

Dean glanced back at his wings, at the stunningly white feathers that had been stained crimson at the bottom. "I tried," he admitted, "it wouldn't come out."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but that's ok. I kinda like it. It's almost symbolic, you know?"

"Really," Sam asked, "symbolic, huh?"

"You got a problem with that?"

"No," the younger replied,. "it's just that I'm impressed. I mean, symbolic _is_ a three syllable word."

Dean smirked. "Glad to have you back, bitch."

"Glad to be back, jerk."

* * *

**The End**

Thanks again!

Mummyluvr


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